Epilogue 1

EPILOGUE 1

The day after we resume the regular practice schedule, I expect Coach Badaszek to call me into his office, to chew me out for spending Christmas with his daughter, and to call out the house of cards we built out of lies, then kick it over. But Vohn doesn’t come at me looking stone-faced. Neither does Helen with a dim expression of disappointment.

That means Badaszek doesn’t know.

This means I have to tell him.

Mustering up more courage needed than when facing down the most brutal goons in the league, I march up to the office. Badaszek is on a call and, over his shoulder, gives me the one-minute finger to wait.

I plant myself in the leather seat as I’ve done so many times.

Badaszek has his back to me and says, “I understand. Of course. This is a big deal.” He pauses.

I wonder about the uncharacteristic softness in his voice, praying it works in my favor and that he’s in a good mood .

“We’ll make it work. We always do. I’ll be waiting. I love you too.”

Even though I’m stationary, I somehow freeze. There are only three people in the world he’d say those four words to: Bannanna, McMann, and Badaszek, er, Cara.

He gets off the phone and looks up at me, opens his mouth, and then closes it. His brow crimps. “Did I call you in for a meeting, Arsenault?”

“No, sir, I want to?—”

“Then what are you doing here?”

I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “I want to talk to you about Cara.”

“Just got off the phone with her. She’s headed to LA.”

I jerk back, my body and brain wrapped around the axle. “What?”

He lets out a long breath. “She wants to quit school. Come home.”

I almost slouch with relief, but then I remember I’m in the coach’s office. “That might have something to do with me.”

“I was afraid of that.”

Straightening, I tell him everything. Well, almost. I leave out all the kissing parts, clarify that I really do love his daughter and am pining over her, and that we spent Christmas together.

He makes a grunting, growling sound that sends my hair on end. “I thought so.”

“Sir, I would never do anything to hurt her. I respect Cara.” I love her.

“But she doesn’t feel the same,” he says, nodding.

This time, I do slouch. Is that what she told him on the phone? Does she still want to keep this secret?

“Thank you for coming clean. I respect that.”

“Thank you, sir. That means a lot.”

I leave the office feeling better and worse than when I went in. Better because I’m no longer living a lie and worse because Cara doesn’t feel the same? But instead of spiraling into a vortex of whats and ifs , I lean into my New Year’s resolution—Pierre 2.0, all grown up and better than ever—and text the girl of my dreams.

Me: Dadaszek said you left for LA. Where does that leave us?

But she doesn’t answer. Instead of leaving the arena, I return to the rink and pound through drills and an ice workout that would make even the likes of Vohn wonder if I lost my mind. When I’ve thoroughly saturated my clothing with sweat, I hit the locker room. But first, I check my phone.

Girl of My Dreams: I was up in the air when you messaged. Now, I’m back on campus.

Me: And . . .

My heart rate is already through the roof. Now, it plummets.

Girl of My Dreams: I’m packing up. It’s over.

Me: What do you mean?

We didn’t talk about this. She just up and left after everything?

Girl of My Dreams: I have a Christmas Market to save, a New Year’s party to attend, and a future with my knight in shining armor. What did you think I meant?

Me: The worst .

I drop back against the lockers, rattling them, as relief sweeps through me, then give her a summary of my visit to her father’s office.

Girl of My Dreams: Oh, um, that. I haven’t discussed us with him yet. Figured I’d take one thing at a time.

Me: So there is an us?

Cara doesn’t reply for five minutes. My heart creeps to a stop. Then it jolts when the phone rings. She explains that her phone died and that she’ll be back in two days for good, and this life change is entirely her choice.

“It doesn’t have anything to do with me?” I ask, partly relieved because I don’t want to be responsible if she resents quitting school and partly crushed for obvious reasons.

“Oh, you’re front and center, Arsenault.”

I chuckle.

“So there is still an us ,” I ask, seeking reassurance.

“Very much so.”

“Badaszek said you don’t feel the same way.”

“As I said, I haven’t told him about us. But I will. I’m waiting until after the New Year’s party. He and my mom got married on New Year’s Eve, so it can be a tough night for him, you know?”

This means it’s time for me to work on those early New Year’s resolutions.

When Cara returns to Cobbiton, I ask her to meet me at the Fish Bowl. She’s not overly enthusiastic about the location, but her mouth waters when she sees the “Stuffed Pub Potato Skin Pucks” I ordered for us that just came from the kitchen. Mine too when she sits down across from me, cheeks pink from the cold, big eyes bright, and lips . . .

I don’t know how I got so lucky.

“These are my favorite,” she says, digging in.

We chat for a few minutes, and then I discreetly click send on the message I had waiting.

Cara’s phone beeps, but she ignores it.

“Hey, are you going to check your phone?” I ask.

“Not when we’re finally back together. I missed you. The text can wait.”

“What if it’s important?”

“The most important thing is you . . . and these potato skins.” She takes another bite.

I chuckle and wonder how I can fix this unexpected problem. “Have you changed my contact info?”

She hesitates. “Yes, a few times.”

“So I’m not the Knight in Shining Armor anymore?”

“Technically, yes, well, in an ugly Christmas sweater or hockey jersey.”

I chuckle. “Not Professor Frenchman?” I ask, referring to a previous conversation.

“Nope.”

“Then what am I?”

She shrugs and helps herself to another potato skin.

“Let me see.”

Way to be subtle, Romeo.

“Okay, fine. You’re Mr. Arsenault.”

“Mr, huh?” That works nicely because I’m fixing to make her my Mrs.

Trying to play it cool, we chat for a few minutes about her trip to Los Angeles, and then her phone beeps again. This time, it wasn’t me. She gets a flurry of texts and finally checks.

With a roll of her eyes, Cara says, “It’s my sisters discussing what we’re all going to wear tomorrow night at the New Year’s Eve party. Oh, and there’s one from you.” She tilts her head. “From a few minutes ago. But we’ve been together.”

Clearing my throat, I say, “Maybe you should check it.”

Giving me a squinty look of confusion, she taps the message. Cara blinks a few times and then peers up at me. I can’t fight my smile and nod. She glances back at her phone and types a reply.

I check my messages when my phone beeps.

Me: Cara, I love you. Will you marry me?

Girl of My Dreams: I told you I’d say yes.

Me: So do you?

Girl of My Dreams: Yes, Pierre! I’ll marry you.

I slide my hand under the table and find hers, then slide the engagement ring on her finger. I whisper, “I’m doing this on the down low so we don’t end up all over social media again.”

“Then why do it here?”

I take her hand, lead her across the room, and point to the ceiling. “So, we could have another Merry Kiss-mas moment.”

Cara’s smile reaches her eyes as if she realizes that I’m reenacting the evening we first met. She squeezes my hand and says, “Clever.”

I lean down and whisper, “So you’ll be my wife?”

Lifting onto her toes, she answers, “Yes.”

Our lips meet with a kiss that silences the room before the cameras start snapping photos that will show the world and the Puck Bunny fandom that this woman won my heart.

I guess this kiss will be all over social media after all, but the engagement is our special secret . . . for now.