Page 97 of Stick Fight

“Oh, that?” she says, as if I’m not staring at the most bizarre mashup of hockey and high fashion ever imagined.

I glance past her and things start falling into place like puzzle pieces snapping in. There’s a news crewstationed at one end. Cameras. Lighting. I scan the stands and spot several players—Rip among them—but no kids. No toddlers running around, no scattered gloves or skates. The benches are too clean.Too prepared.

Even worse, Roman isn’t sitting with them. He’s nowhere to be found. Something is wrong.

“Josie,” I say, more urgently this time. “What is going on? And why do I feel like it has everything to do with me?”

She grins mischievously. “Because it does.”

Before I can demand more, she throws her hands in the air like a conductor leading an orchestra. The lights dim. Music begins, deep bass, elegant strings, and I swear the air around me shifts. I stagger a little, barely staying upright as Camryn struts out onto the makeshift runway.

Wearing my newest designs.

My breath catches. I can't move. My knees are soft clay and my heart is hammering as the world slows down around me. Josie gently guides me into a front-row seat, and I collapse into it, still reeling.

Then Tate appears, marching down the ice like he owns it, dressed in the tailored gold-and-black suit I sketched and made with him in mind.

What is happening?

Then…Roman appears.

He glides onto the ice in flawless rhythm, mic in hand. His voice rings out, confident and clear. “Welcome toPuck Couture,” he says to the press, the crowd, and then…to me. His eyes find mine, and that smile spreads across his face, slow and sure. Dimples and all.

My throat tightens. I forgot how much those dimples could wreck me.

“These tailored-fit, custom pieces blend practicality with luxury,” he says, gesturing to the models gliding behind him. “Perfect for players’ kids who need to be comfortable but stylish, whether they’re attending family parties, sitting in VIP boxes, going to charity galas, or exclusive events.”

Out steps Kayce, holding his mom’s hand. He’s decked out in the sporty-chic tracksuit I designed, complete with sleek stripes and just the right amount of edge. My breath catches. I remember designing that exact piece with him in mind. My heart slams against my ribs.

This is everythingI envisioned. The dream come to life. But my joy is tangled with confusion, because why is Roman doing this? And why is everyone helping him pull it off?

Is this why Maeve begged me to come back? Does she even need a nanny… or was that just a setup? Then Zoe appears, her party dress glimmering under the lights, sequins, ruffles, all in the team’s signature gold and black. Pure elegance perfectly styled. She beams with pride as she twirls on the runway.

Next come Dani and Conner, walking hand-in-hand with their twins, Sidney and Everly, both decked out in miniature varsity jackets with sparkle-trimmed sneakers. My throat tightens at the sight. They look like tiny fashion icons.

Then Grant Senior strides out, baby Grant in his arms, and the place erupts. The crowd loses it at the sight of that sweet little boy dressed in a miniature blazer and chinos like a pint-sized CEO in Boston Bucks colors. Even I can't help the laugh that bursts out of me. One by one, the kids take their turns on the runway, absolutely glowing with pride.

Then Maeve steps out.

She meets my eyes with a hopeful, sheepish look, like she’s silently asking—you’re not mad at me are you?

She kneels, whispers something to Stella, and points in my direction. Stella gives a backward wave. “Gaga!” she squeals, her curls bouncing.

My chest squeezes. I zero in on her adorable outfit, the playful Bucks-printed leggings, the matching zip-up hoodie. She looks like a tiny fashion ambassador, and she’s wearingit for me. Tears rise fast, and I can’t stop them.

“Why is he doing this?” I whisper.

Josie doesn’t answer right away. She just takes my hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze. “You’ll see.”

And just when I think the show’s over…

Mabel barrels onto the ice like a furry little diva, strutting and spinning in the custom Boston Bucks colored coat I designed just for her. The crowd loses its collective mind. Laughter. Applause. Cheers. Then I notice the camera pointed directly at me.

Oh God, is this going to be on the news?I frantically try to smooth my hair, wipe my cheeks.

“Brighton called in a favor,” Josie murmurs, watching me panic. “Seems everyone wanted in.”

Before I can process what that means, Roman lifts his mic again, turning toward the cameras, and then me.

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