Now that thought feels wrong. Too final.
Maybe it doesn’t have to end.
Maybe…maybe Vegas isn’t the end. Maybe it’s just the beginning of something I’m finally ready to want for real.
But where does Rowyn stand?
I hit the showers, the sting of the loss still fresh, but the thought of Rowyn waiting for me helps dull it. Just the idea of her in the box, watching me through every play, every hit, every shift—knowing she’ll go home with me tonight, slide into my arms—that feels like something I can hold on to. Almost like I won something better than the Cup.
Since I’m not scheduled for interviews, I wash quickly. No lingering. No letting my head spiral back into what I could have done better. I towel off, change, and head outside. There are a few fans waiting, so I stop, sign jerseys and hats, offer a tired smile. But even as I’m talking, my eyes are scanning.
Then I see her.
She’s chatting with Dani, but she’s glancing around, searching for me at the same time. A warmth spreads through my chest, making everything else fall away. As soon as her eyes find mine, she gives Dani a quick hug and excuses herself. We weave through the crowd toward each other, and when our hands connect, I hold on like I’m afraid someone’s going to make me let go.
That’s when the cameras start to flash.
I lean in and kiss her—not because of them, not to make some fucking guy stand up and take notice of her—but because I need it. Need her.
When I pull away, her expression softens, eyes tinged with empathy. “I’m sorry about the loss. You okay?”
The question wraps around my heart. My throat tightens. It’s one thing to have teammates pat your back, or parents remind you how proud they are no matter what. But this…this is someone standing right beside you in the moment. No delay. No distance. Just here, in the mess with me.
I think about all the years I could have had this. Could have let someone in. But I didn’t. Because of fear. Fear of being used. Fear of being hurt.
She’d never hurt you, man.
“Head home?” she asks gently, tucking herself closer like she already knows my answer. “Or are you going for a drink with the guys?”
“Home,” I say instantly. No hesitation. “I’m beat.”
She nods. She doesn’t push me to go be a team player tonight, doesn’t suggest I get rest alone. And I’m weirdly grateful, more than I know how to say.
“Are you hungry? We can grab something, or I can make you something.”
I pull her closer. “How about I make you something?”
She narrows her eyes. “No, I’m taking care of you during playoffs, remember?”
I let out a tired chuckle. “Okay. How about we order in?”
She lightly smacks my arm. “You don’t trust my cooking?”
I bend forward and exaggerate an ‘oomph’. “I didn’t say that. It’s late, and I don’t want you in the kitchen?—”
“Oh, I remember when you did want me in the kitchen.” She shoots me a wicked wink as I slip an arm around her and guide her toward the car.
“Is the honeymoon over already, Jaxon? Tired of me?”
“Fuck no,” I murmur into her ear, low enough that only she hears it. “I definitely want you in the kitchen, and every other room in the house.”
She shivers slightly, smiling. “Good. But first, I’m going to feed you. You worked your butt off on that ice and need sustenance.”
My stomach growls in agreement. “You’re right.” I tighten my arm around her, absorbing the simple comfort of being looked after. A guy could get used to this. To her.
As we walk toward the car, my thoughts drift before I can stop them.
Me, coming home every night to Rowyn. Or her walking through the door after work to find me already there. Cooking together. Arguing over who over-seasoned the sauce. Laughing until our sides hurt. Sharing the good parts of our day. The bad parts too.