Picking Up the Pieces (Pieces, #2)(118)

I laughed. "You are a true romantic, you know that?"

"Just speaking the truth," he replied as he buried his face in the crook of my neck.

"So did I show you?" I asked.

"Show me what?"

I turned so that we were facing each other. "How much I love you," I whispered.

His sexy smirk primed my body for him again. "You did. But maybe you should show me again. Just to be sure."

"Whatever it takes," I replied sincerely.

And as we began to get lost in each other again, I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I loved this man. He was my one, my only, my Max.





Epilogue: Max


Nearly Five Years Later




“In five, four, three, two . . . ,” Scott pointed at me.

“We’re here with Anton Gavrikov," I began, "who scored the tying goal in the Flyers come-from-behind victory. Gav, at the start of the third period, you were down by three goals. What was the secret to today’s win?”

Gav brushed his sweaty hair from his eyes with his fingers as he leaned toward the mic I was holding and spoke with a thick accent that reminded me of Arnold Schwarzenegger’s. “We were never out of it, you know. All the guys worked together.” He looked toward his teammates, who were filing excitedly toward the locker room. “We just kept up our speed and never stopped attacking. And I guess it paid off ‘cause we won in the end.”

It was no secret that I loved when the Flyers won. How could I not love my home team, especially when I was one of the on-ice broadcasters? But what I loved more than just watching the Flyers win, was watching them win when they were the underdogs. Just when you thought they were down and out, they’d pull off nothing short of a miracle at the end. “You know, these are the kinda games fans love to watch, Gav. New York's favored, they’re up by three in the third. It looks like they’re gonna win, and then you take a risky shot that could quite possibly result in New York recovering the puck and holding it 'til the buzzer. If you’d missed, fans might've said you should’ve been more patient, waited ‘til the right time to strike, gotten a little closer to the net. What made you take the shot when you did?”

“Well, there wasn’t much thought that went into it. More reflex than anything else. I saw an opportunity and I took it. Didn’t really think about not taking it. Just brought my stick back and focused my eyes on the goal.”

I chuckled at Gav’s confidence. I knew what it was like to fight for something you wanted—something you needed. To know that sometimes you just had to go for it and f*ck what anyone else thought. Because while you might miss nine out of ten times, it was the one time that you made it that everyone would remember. That one time—that was the game changer.

"Then that gave us the opportunity we had in overtime. It's almost like a new game when that happens. A fresh start. Plus you're pumped up ‘cause you've just come back from behind. There's already a feeling that you've won."

“And you think that attitude is what helped you finish the game?"

"Yeah, they gave us a second chance. We weren't gonna screw it up again."

"Well, it paid off. People were pulling for you, and you found a way to win. The only thing that matters is the score at the end." I shook his hand, signaling that our brief interview was coming to a close. "Well, I'll let you go celebrate with the guys. Great win today."

***

Thankfully, the drive home didn’t take long. Saturday afternoon games were my favorite. I’d be home in time for dinner and to put Maddie to bed. Those were the moments I cherished most now. As much as I loved the fast-paced atmosphere that broadcasting provided, nothing beat reading a bedtime story to my daughter. Except maybe holding her mother in my arms as we lay in bed together after a hectic day.

The smell of homemade Italian food and Maddie's eager embrace greeted me the second I entered the door. “Daddy!” she screeched with her little arms stretched around my legs. “We made you dinner.” I knelt down to scoop her into my arms and squeeze her against my chest.

“What’d you make together?” I asked, overemphasizing my excitement. “It smells great.”

“Chicken . . .” She held her finger to her lips like she was deep in thought. “With cheese,” she added. “And sauce . . .”

I carried Maddie into the kitchen and Lily turned around to face me, leaning against the counter. “Chicken parm,” she mouthed with a coy grin. “Shh,” she warned, not wanting to spoil our three-year-old daughter's fun at remembering the dinner she helped cook.

As I watched Maddie try to remember the menu, I smiled widely. I’d recognize that face anywhere: the way the left corner of her mouth raised slightly more than her right when she smiled, how her green eyes shimmered with specks of bronze when the light hit them just right. Maddie’s dark hair hung to her shoulders and her brow was furrowed, deep in thought. “You know,” I said, tapping her on the nose playfully, “you look just like Mommy when you do that.” I held up my finger to my lips to imitate her expression, and she giggled at me.

My eyes raised to Lily, who pushed off the counter and walked slowly, gracefully across the kitchen toward me. “She does, does she?”