Page 146 of What if It's Us

I kiss the back of her hand, rubbing my thumb over her knuckles. “I love you, Marlee. I promise I’ll give you the world for as long as you’re willing to take it.”

“Bride first, world later,” she says and cracks a smile so huge it breaks whatever tired shell she’s been hiding under for weeks.

August reclaims the crown for Best Supporting Hooligan with a full-on golf clap. “I give it two months before you’re both attending date night in matching spit-up shirts.”

“Three weeks,” Layken bets, reaching across the couch to shake on it.

Barrett leans into the group, eyes shining. “I’ll officiate. I’m ordained.”

“No, you’re not,” Bodhi says from the kitchen, where he’s making grilled cheeses for the squad.

Barrett winks. “But I can be by the internet.”

Marlee lets her head tip back and groans, laughing. “Yes, fine. But unlike the rest of you, I’m actually showering before my wedding.”

“Too late,” I say and tug her hand. “This is the ceremony. You just said yes.”

She rolls her eyes and rests her cheek on the top of Ellis’s head. “Fine. But I don’t want to take the world from you Ledger,” she says, her head tilted, her eyes full of love. I’m about to argue with her when she finishes, “But I’ll share the world with you for as long as we both shall live.”

“Marlee Rose Remington, about to become Marlee Rose Dayne…” I reach up and place a kiss on her soft sweet lips, reminding myself to hold the memory of this very moment in my heart forever and ever. “You’ve got yourself a deal".

Want more of Ledger and Marlee’s story?

Subscribe to my newsletter

and download a special epilogue HERE!

Read on for a sneak peek at the next book in the Anaheim Stars series!

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

WHAT IF I HATE YOU EXCERPT

BARRETT

“For fuck’s sake, Blackstone! Make it greasy and shove it in deep!”

There’s three minutes left in the third period and the scoreboard is fucking glaring down at me, mocking me with every passing second on the clock.

4–3.

I’m sweating bullets under my cage, my pads are heavy like concrete, and every muscle in my body is tense and ready. Portland circles my net like sharks—fast and hungry. They’re out for blood tonight. And my teammates? Fucking gassed, sloppy and late on every coverage. And I’m no better having let the puck through to the net more times than I care to talk about.

But the game isn’t over until it’s over. We could tie it up and take us into overtime.

We could take the win.

I try to bark at my defensemen but it’s like I’m yelling underwater and nobody can hear me.

And then it happens.

A fucking turnover at the blue line.

A clean breakaway.

Portland has possession and their forward, Andre Dirkovich, who I’ll forever refer to as Dick-ovich is fast. Too fucking fast. He cuts right and then drags the puck left waiting just long enough for me to bite. I see his game as he’s playing it.

I know exactly what he’s going to try to do.

---