Page 70 of Slap Shot
"Pretty impressive?" Oliver's grin was pure mischief. "I think you mean devastatingly brilliant."
"I think I mean you're getting a big head from all the media attention."
"Maybe. But can you blame me?" His hands found her waist, thumbs tracing patterns through her sweater that made her pulse kick up despite being in a public parking garage. "Best hockey of my career, no more looking over my shoulder, and the most amazing woman I've ever met waiting for me after games. I'm feeling pretty good about life right now."
Heather studied his face in the dim lighting, noting the complete absence of the anxiety that had marked so many of their early interactions. The man holding her now was confident without being cocky, settled in ways that had nothing to do with hockey success and everything to do with finally accepting all parts of himself.
"Speaking of feeling good about life," she said, pulling her key fob from her pocket, "I have something to show you."
Oliver raised an eyebrow as she led him toward her car, Charlie trotting beside them with the relaxed posture of a dog whose handler was experiencing optimal emotional states. "Please tell me it's not more network security updates. My brain is barely functioning after that game."
"Better." Heather opened her passenger door to reveal a small gift bag sitting on the seat. "Consider it a hat trick celebration."
Oliver picked up the bag with curious fingers, his expression shifting to wonder as he pulled out a key attached to a simple key chain. Not just any key, a house key, unmistakably residential in design.
"Heather," he said, his voice carrying notes of hope and disbelief in equal measure.
"I know we've talked about taking things to the next level, and after tonight's game, it felt like the right time," she said, suddenly nervous about a gesture that had seemed perfectly natural when she'd had the key made that afternoon. "And you've been staying over most nights anyway, and Charlie's already claimed the good spot by the fireplace, and I just thought—"
Oliver silenced her rambling by cupping her face in his hands and kissing her with enough intensity to make her forget they were standing in a public parking garage. When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, his smile was bright enough to power the arena.
"You sure about this?" he asked, his thumb tracing along her cheekbone. "Living with a hockey player means weird schedules, road trips, probably way too much sports analysis over breakfast."
"I think I can handle it. I'm pretty good at analyzing performance data." She rose on her toes to press another quick kiss to his lips. "Besides, someone needs to make sure you eat actual vegetables instead of surviving on protein bars and good intentions."
"And someone needs to make sure you remember to sleep instead of staying up all night hunting security threats that don't exist anymore."
They drove home separately but arrived within minutes of each other, the choreography of their evening routine now as natural as breathing. Oliver changed out of his suit whileHeather queued up game highlights on her laptop, both of them gravitating toward the living room where Charlie had already claimed his favorite spot on the rug.
"Come here," Oliver said, settling onto the couch and pulling her against his side. "I want to watch you analyze my hat trick goal."
"You want to watch me work?" Heather laughed, but she curled into his warmth anyway, her laptop balanced on both their knees as she pulled up the replay.
"I want to watch you get excited about hockey data," he corrected. "It's incredibly sexy when you start talking about trajectory analysis and release points."
"Everything about hockey is sexy to you."
"Not everything. Just the parts that involve you explaining why I'm so good at it."
Heather rolled her eyes but pulled up the goal breakdown anyway, noting the precise positioning and timing that had made Oliver's shot impossible to stop. As she pointed out the technical details that had created the scoring opportunity, Oliver's attention shifted from the screen to her face, his fingers playing with her hair in a way that made it increasingly difficult to focus on performance metrics.
"You're not paying attention," she accused, though she made no effort to move away from his touch.
"I'm paying attention to the most important thing in the room," he replied, his voice dropping to the tone that never failed to make heat pool low in her stomach.
"The most important thing in the room is your ability to process information about shooting angles and defensive positioning."
"The most important thing in the room," Oliver said, closing the laptop and setting it aside, "is the woman who taught me that I could trust someone with every part of myself and still be safe."
The honesty in his voice made something flutter in her chest. "Oliver..."
"I love you," he said simply. "Not just because you saved my career or protected the team or caught the bad guys. I love you because you see me completely, the hockey player, the former hacker, the guy who needs a service dog to function in crowded spaces, and you choose all of it."
"I choose all of it because all of it is you," Heather replied, shifting to straddle his lap so she could look directly into his dark eyes. "The brilliant analyst, the loyal teammate, the man who was brave enough to trust me with secrets that could have destroyed everything he'd built."
When she kissed him this time, it was with all the emotion she'd been holding back during weeks of careful investigation and hidden meetings. Oliver responded immediately, his hands sliding under her sweater to trace patterns on bare skin that made her gasp against his mouth.
"Bedroom?" he asked, though his hands were already working at the buttons of her blouse.
