The team bar was loud — post-win loud. Music thumping, glasses clinking, someone shouting the score like it hadn’t been up on the board an hour ago. Tyler leaned against the back of a high-top, still half in his jacket, half in his head. His stick bag was propped against the wall by the door, a reminder that he’d promised himself an early night.

He wasn’t drunk — two beers, maybe — but the adrenaline still buzzed low in his blood. He was smiling at something one of the rookies said when he noticed her.

She’d been hovering most of the night. The type who knew every player’s stats but not their girlfriends’ names. The kind who still called them “boys” like they were rockstars instead of guys who smelled like sweat and tape.

“Tyler Harrison,” she said, sliding into the empty space beside him like it had been waiting for her. She smiled — practiced, perfect. “You’re impossible to catch standing still, you know that?”

He huffed a small laugh, polite, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes. “Occupational hazard,” he said, tipping his glass toward her before setting it down. “You here with someone?”

“Just friends,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at the table of giggling girls across the room. “But they wanted to meet the guy who scored the winning assist.” Her smile deepened, shameless. “Can’t blame them.”

Tyler’s grin stayed where it was — easy, automatic — but his tone shifted, casual and cool. “Well, tell them I said thanks. But maybe skip the ‘meet the guy’ part. My girlfriend’s got a monopoly on that department.”

The girl laughed lightly, unfazed. “Oh, come on. I’m not trying to steal anyone. Just being friendly.”

“Right,” he said, nodding once. His voice dropped, just a touch lower — calm, steady, no room for argument. “Friendly’s fine. Just don’t mistake polite for interest. I’m not trying to give you the wrong idea.”

That earned a small flicker in her eyes — the brief pause of someone not used to being told no. But she recovered quickly, twirling her straw in her drink like it didn’t matter. “Relax, Harrison. You’re reading too much into it.”

“Maybe,” he said, smiling again, but it was softer now — the kind that said conversation over. “But I’d rather be clear than careless. Saves everyone time.”

He picked up his glass again, giving her a nod that was friendly but final. The kind of look that said you can finish your drink here, but don’t push it.

She lingered anyway, probably already rehearsing how the story would sound later — Tyler was totally flirting back, he couldn’t take his eyes off me.

He didn’t bother correcting the narrative. Let her talk. The people who knew him — who really knew him — didn’t need proof of where his loyalty was.

Still, when his gaze drifted toward the bar’s doorway, he caught himself hoping Ellie would never hear the story. Not because it was true, but because she deserved better than to have her name tossed around like part of some cheap post-game rumor.

He exhaled, rolling his shoulders back and nodding toward his teammates across the room. “Anyway,” he said, standing, easy grin back in place. “Gotta check on the guys. Enjoy your night.”

And with that, he left his half-finished beer on the counter and walked away — the sound of her laughter trailing after him like perfume.

But when he reached for his phone in his pocket, thumb brushing over Ellie’s name in his messages, the noise around him faded just a little.
Yeah. He was exactly where he wanted to be now — and no amount of flirting, false smiles, or bar-room gossip was going to make him forget it.

Ellie had just stepped inside when she saw it.

The bar was a blur of noise and motion — all clinking glasses, sweat-slick laughter, and too-loud music. The kind of chaos that always followed one of Tyler’s wins. She’d been here a dozen times before, always lingering by the door first, waiting until he spotted her before she made her way in.

This time, though, she froze.

Because there she was — the blonde. The type you could spot from a mile away. Hair perfectly curled, smile sharpened to a weapon. The kind of girl who used to get to him before Ellie ever did.

Her stomach dipped. Not because she didn’t trust him — she did, more than she’d ever trusted anyone. But the sight still pulled at an old, familiar nerve, the one that whispered, you remember how this used to go.

She didn’t move. Just watched.

Watched the girl lean in, laughter soft and deliberate. Watched Tyler’s posture stay easy but detached — shoulders relaxed, eyes polite, but nothing more.

Then she heard him say it — calm, steady, unbothered.
My girlfriend’s got a monopoly on that department.

The words hit her like warmth spreading through her chest. No hesitation. No glancing around to see who was watching. Just my girlfriend, said like it was fact, like it was obvious.

She felt her pulse slow a little.

The girl said something back — flirty, stubborn, too-loud over the music. Ellie could only catch half of it, but she didn’t need to hear the rest. Tyler’s face told her everything. The tight smile. The short nod. The shift in tone that made even the air around him cool.

Ellie’s lips parted slightly, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. He didn’t sound defensive. He sounded done.

The girl faltered. Tyler stood, grabbed his jacket, and nodded once before walking away — leaving his beer behind, leaving her behind.

Ellie exhaled slowly, realizing she’d been holding her breath.

He didn’t see her there, half in the shadows near the entrance, coat still buttoned, hands tucked into her sleeves. But she saw the whole thing. Saw the difference between the boy she met years ago — the one who used to crave attention — and the man walking away now, quieter, clearer, his loyalty not performative but instinctive.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
TYLER: You here?

Ellie smiled to herself, thumbs brushing over the screen before she typed back.
ELLIE: Yeah. Been here a minute. You done making new friends?

She slipped her phone back into her coat, still smiling, then started toward him.

The room was packed — bodies, laughter, teammates slapping backs — but her focus didn’t waver. He was across the room, mid-conversation with one of the rookies, but his eyes lifted as soon as she got close. The tension dropped from his shoulders the instant he saw her.

Ellie didn’t make a scene. She didn’t have to. She just walked right up to him, eyes bright, that half-smile that said I saw everything, and I’m not mad, just quietly proud.

“Hey,” she said, her tone soft but certain.

He turned fully toward her — and before he could say a word, she leaned in and kissed him. Slow. Steady. Deliberate. The kind of kiss that didn’t need to prove anything, but made a statement all the same.

And when she pulled back, she didn’t look at him first.

Her gaze slid past his shoulder — straight to the blonde still standing at the bar, pretending not to watch but failing miserably. Ellie’s eyes met hers, calm and unbothered, a small, knowing smirk curving her lips.

A silent message.
This is mine. Next time, don’t bother.

Then she turned back to Tyler, her hand finding his without hesitation.

“You handled that well,” she said lightly, voice warm with pride. “And for the record… I’m not jealous. Just making sure no one forgets how this works.”

Her hand slipped fully into his, casual but sure, grounding him there in the middle of the noise.

“Now,” she added with a playful glance toward the bar, “where’s my victory drink?”

Tyler laughed, the sound rough and low, and reached for the bartender’s attention. Ellie grinned, nudging his shoulder as his teammates cheered from across the room.

Soon there were glasses being passed, someone starting a chant, and half the table arguing over who really deserved MVP. Ellie didn’t care. She leaned against Tyler’s side, her head near his shoulder, laughing as one of the rookies tried to toast with a shot that was half foam.

When he looked down at her — beer in one hand, arm brushing hers — she caught the faintest trace of that post-game glow in his eyes.

She tilted her head, smiling quietly. “You’re glowing,” she teased. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

He just grinned. And she let herself laugh — easy and full, the sound lost somewhere in the music and the warmth and the low hum of everything that was finally right.

For the first time all night, Ellie let herself settle in.
No tension. No doubt.

Just the man she loved, the noise of a win, and the knowledge that this time, she didn’t have to wonder where she stood.

Tyler had always loved the post-win high — the kind that hit like static under his skin, that mix of adrenaline and beer and noise that used to make him feel invincible. Once upon a time, that was the point. The chaos, the celebration, the attention. Winning used to mean a different kind of night — hands he didn’t know, names he didn’t remember, laughter that never made it past sunrise.

Now it meant her.

He’d take one of these nights with Ellie over ten of the old ones. No contest.

The music thumped steady through the team bar, the air thick with victory and cheap cologne. The guys were still loud, arguing over plays they’d already rewatched in their heads a dozen times. Tyler leaned back against the booth, one arm stretched across the seat, watching them with the kind of lazy satisfaction that came only after a hard win and a harder week.

He could feel the eyes on him — he always did after a game like this. A few of the usual girls lingering near the bar, trying not to look like they were waiting for a moment. It used to feed something in him. That ego, that need to be wanted.

Now, it just made him grin — not for them, but for himself. Because the only person he cared about impressing was the one walking toward him right now, that familiar shape cutting through the noise like the calm after the storm.

Ellie Tate.

He caught her before she said a word — the way her eyes softened, the faint smirk she wore like she already knew what he’d just turned down. Yeah. She’d seen it. And for once, that didn’t make his stomach twist; it made his chest feel like it had more room to breathe.

He’d said my girlfriend without thinking. Not because it made him look good, not because anyone was listening — but because it was true. Because it fit in his mouth the way her name did when he whispered it in the dark.

When she reached him, when she kissed him — soft but sure — the whole room seemed to lose its volume for a second. He didn’t care that the guys started cheering or that the bartender whistled. He didn’t even care that half the table started pounding their glasses against the counter like they were witnessing some big romantic victory.

He just smiled against her, a quiet, private kind of smile that didn’t belong to the crowd.

When she pulled back and said her piece, his laugh came out low and rough. “Yeah,” he said, eyes glinting as he looked down at her. “You make it pretty hard to forget how this works.”

He ordered her drink without asking — already knew what she liked — and passed it over as the guys started another round of loud, sloppy toasts. She fit against his side like she always did, easy and sure, her laughter weaving into the background noise until it felt like the whole place had softened around them.

Tyler took a slow sip of his beer, looking out at his teammates — some of them still sneaking glances at Ellie like they couldn’t believe she actually enjoyed being here with their chaos. But she did. She laughed with them, chirped back when they teased him, even called one of them out for mispronouncing a play.

The best part? Nobody minded. Nobody made her feel like she didn’t belong.

And that—that—was what he loved most.

She wasn’t some accessory, some afterthought. She was part of it. His favorite part.

He leaned down a little, close enough that his words barely carried over the noise. “You know,” he murmured, his voice just for her, “I used to think nights like this were about the win.” He paused, brushing his thumb absently along the back of her hand. “Turns out, it’s about who you celebrate with.”

Ellie tilted her head, smiling up at him, and for a moment the room blurred — just her, the glow of the overhead lights catching in her hair, the sound of her laugh melting into the hum of everything else.

Tyler laughed softly, shaking his head. “You’re right, though,” he said, voice low and teasing. “I’m glowing. But don’t worry — it’s not the win.”

He clinked his glass gently against hers, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It’s you, Tate.”

And when she laughed again, leaning into him, the rest of the noise didn’t matter. The jealous looks, the shouts, the music — all of it faded into the kind of background you only get when you’ve already found what you were looking for.

Ellie’s cheeks warmed before she could stop it — partly from the beer he’d just handed her, partly from the way he was looking at her like the whole bar didn’t exist.

She set the glass down for a second, brushing a stray curl behind her ear and pretending to study the table’s sticky surface, though the small smile tugging at her mouth betrayed her. “Good,” she said quietly, fingers grazing the edge of his jacket before resting there. “I’d hate for you to need reminding.”

The teasing tone came easy, but under it was something steadier, something real. Because she’d seen him before — the version that used to chase everything that burned bright and fast. And this one, the man sitting here now, wasn’t chasing anything. He was home.

She let her thumb brush across his knuckles, just once, light enough that only he’d feel it before taking a sip of her drink.

When he looked out over the team, watching his guys with that easy, proud kind of grin, she followed his gaze. “They love you,” she murmured, smiling against the rim of her glass. “Not that I blame them. You’re tolerable in small doses.”

Her eyes flicked back up to his — that spark there again, the one that always found her, even in a room full of noise. “I like seeing you like this,” she added, softer this time. “Relaxed. Happy. You forget how good that looks on you.”

He leaned closer then, his breath brushing her ear as he spoke, and her pulse skipped like it always did when he used that tone — low and unhurried, meant only for her. She didn’t say anything at first. Just turned her hand so their fingers linked fully, slow and natural, her thumb tracing along the side of his.

“I know,” she whispered back, eyes still on their hands. “You make it really easy to remember what’s worth celebrating.”

The words barely carried over the music, but the way he looked at her said he heard every one of them.

And when he laughed — soft and quiet, that sound that still made something in her chest flutter — she couldn’t help but smile wider. He was glowing, she realized. Not the flashbulb kind of glow, not adrenaline or victory. Something warmer, truer.

She tilted her head, meeting his gaze with a knowing look. “Oh, I noticed,” she said lightly, voice threading with amusement. “You’ve got that whole post-game halo thing going. Very unfair of you, actually.” Her hand slipped higher along his arm, playful but fond. “It’s borderline distracting.”

Then he clinked his glass against hers, and the sound — small and sharp — seemed to quiet the world around them for half a beat. She watched the way his grin softened at the edges, how the corners of his eyes crinkled just slightly when he said her name like that.

Ellie’s chest tightened — not with nerves, not with uncertainty, but with that dizzy, perfect feeling that still caught her off guard sometimes. The one that whispered you got the guy you always wanted, and he wants you right back.

She reached for her glass again, hiding a smile behind it as she leaned closer, just enough that her shoulder pressed against his. “Careful, Harrison,” she murmured, her tone sweet but edged with mischief. “You keep saying things like that, and I might start thinking you’re a romantic.”

Then, quieter — barely a whisper, just for him — “It’s me too, you know. You’re the glow.”

Her words made him look down at her again, and she didn’t look away this time. The crowd around them blurred into sound and color — the laughter, the clinking glasses, the neon light spilling amber across his jawline.

Ellie rested her chin on his shoulder, smiling softly as the team’s victory chants rose again in the background. “You earned this one,” she said, almost to herself. “And not just the win.”

She picked up her drink again, tapping it gently against his. “To us,” she added, her voice barely audible but sure.

And when he smiled, that small, knowing, completely undone smile, she let herself melt into it — into the warmth, the noise, the kind of peace she’d only ever found sitting next to him after nights like this

Tyler’s grin curved slow, the kind that didn’t just pull at his mouth — it unfolded, lazy and deliberate, lighting his eyes from the inside out. The bar hummed around them, a mess of noise and motion — neon flicker bouncing off glass, laughter spilling over from the corner booth, the muffled slam of a cue ball somewhere behind him — but it all fell to a distant blur.

All he saw was her.

Ellie.

She was sitting so close he could feel the warmth of her against his arm, the faint brush of her sleeve when she moved. Her cheeks were tinged pink, maybe from the beer, maybe from the way he was looking at her — like she was the only thing in the room worth looking at.

“Romantic, huh?” His voice came out low, a rumble edged with a smile. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

He leaned in a little, enough that the world between them seemed to contract — the air shifting, charged and soft at the same time. A curl of hair slipped loose across his forehead, catching the amber light from the hanging sign above the bar. “Maybe I’m just late to the game,” he said, quieter now, “but when it’s the right person, you stop wanting to fight it.”

Her words — you’re the glow — landed like a heartbeat against his ribs. He didn’t deflect this time. Didn’t laugh it off. Just sat with it. Let it sink in.

For a man who once lived off noise and movement, it startled him how easy it felt to be still with her.

He reached for his glass, catching hers midair, the small clink cutting clean through the chaos like punctuation in a love song. “To us,” he murmured, the sound almost swallowed by the bar’s soundtrack. His smile softened — not showy, not practiced, just honest. “To the slow kind of good. The kind that sticks.”

The light hit her face just right when she looked up — golden, soft, alive. The reflection of neon in her eyes made her look almost surreal, like something carved out of the very warmth he hadn’t known he’d been missing.

And in that second, he knew. He’d never once wanted to be this kind of man for anyone else.

“You know,” he said, his voice quieter, lower, like a secret he was only just admitting to himself, “you’re the only one I ever wanted to be this way with.” His thumb brushed along the side of her hand, tracing the faint ridges of her knuckles as if memorizing proof. “Guess I just had to stop pretending I didn’t.”

Her smile hit him like sunlight — no hesitation, no pretense. Just her, steady and unshaken.

He tilted his head slightly, a smirk flickering there again, that signature glint returning. “Don’t tell the guys, though,” he added, the teasing easing in like muscle memory. “I’ve got a whole image to protect — can’t have anyone thinking I’ve gone soft.”

Her laugh came easy — that bright, breathy kind that hit him right in the chest — and he let himself laugh with her.

Tyler leaned back in the booth, one arm draped along the backrest, his fingers just brushing her shoulder. Around them, the world pulsed with color and sound — golden light bleeding into blue, glasses raised, a half-slurred chant of his name somewhere near the bar. The music thumped steady under it all, like the heartbeat of a night that didn’t want to end.

He turned his head toward her, close enough that a strand of his hair brushed her temple, the faintest spark of static catching between them. “You were right,” he said softly, eyes fixed on her. “I did earn this one.”

She lifted her brows, and he smiled — slow, sure, the kind that burned from the inside out.

“Not the win,” he said. “You.”

The words sat between them, unpolished but perfect, and in that instant, the rest of the bar fell away completely — the laughter, the clinking glasses, the blur of movement — all of it fading into the warm blur of background light.

Tyler reached out, fingers brushing her jaw with a gentleness that still surprised him. “You’ve got no idea how good it feels to stop running,” he whispered, his breath barely catching the shell of her ear.

Her smile answered before her words did — soft, knowing, all heart.

He grinned, small and certain, voice dipping to a quiet that was meant for her alone. “You’re it for me, Tate. Always were.”

And as the bar roared back to life — another chant rising, lights glinting off glass, teammates clapping him on the back — Tyler barely heard any of it.

Because right there, with her head against his shoulder and laughter curling between them like a promise, it finally felt like the noise had a rhythm worth staying for.

Ellie laughed softly, that kind of warm sound that came from the center of her chest — the one he always said made the rest of the room fade. “Romantic?” she repeated, grinning as she tilted her head toward him. “You say that like it’s news. You’ve been slipping ‘romantic’ in between the chirping and trash talk for months now.”

Her hand found the edge of his sleeve, fingertips grazing the fabric just to keep the contact. “And for the record,” she said, her voice dropping just enough to thread with his, “it’s not a bad thing. I like this version of you.” Her gaze flicked up, meeting his eyes for a beat longer than it needed to. “It’s quieter. Realer. Like you’re finally letting the noise rest.”

When he said he might’ve been late to the game, she smiled — soft, patient. “You weren’t late, Ty. You just didn’t know what the game was yet.” A small shrug followed, teasing and tender in equal measure. “Took you a while to realize you were supposed to stop trying to win it.”

The glasses met, that little chime of sound cutting through the bar, and she lifted hers in kind. “To us,” she echoed, voice steady. “To the slow kind of good… the kind that sticks.” She took a small sip, eyes never leaving him. “For what it’s worth, I think you’ve got staying power.”

The words you’re the only one I ever wanted to be this way with hit something in her — low and deep — but she didn’t blink. She just let the smile spread slow and certain across her face. “Good thing you figured it out, then,” she murmured, her thumb brushing the back of his hand. “Because I wasn’t planning on letting anyone else have this version either.”

When he joked about keeping his reputation intact, she chuckled, leaning closer until her shoulder brushed his. “Oh, don’t worry,” she whispered near his ear. “Your secret’s safe. You can keep your ‘grumpy hockey guy’ image for the world.” Then, after a pause, quieter — “I’ll keep the rest.”

Her fingers toyed absently with the seam of his jacket as she added, “I kind of like being the exception anyway.”

The music pulsed, the chatter rising and falling, and for a second she watched the neon light shift over his face — the gold and pink, the flicker of something softer. “You did earn it, you know,” she said after a beat, eyes flicking up to his. “Not me — not like that — but the space to be here. To just be… still.”

His hand brushed her jaw, and her eyes fluttered half-closed, her voice coming out a quiet whisper. “Feels like you finally stopped running,” she said, echoing him. “I was never chasing you, you know. I was just waiting for you to look back.”

She smiled then, wide and real, her thumb tracing lazy circles on his wrist. “You found your rhythm, Harrison,” she said, teasing, but the warmth underneath it was unmistakable. “Took you long enough.”

He grinned — that soft, unguarded one — and she felt it before she saw it.

Ellie shifted closer, resting her hand over his chest, feeling the beat of it under her palm. “You’re it for me too,” she said quietly, so only he could hear. “But don’t let it go to your head. I still plan on keeping you humble.”

Her tone turned lighter again, that playful spark slipping back in as she added, “And for the record, I think your teammates are about to start writing sonnets about you. You might need to remind them who the real MVP is — me, for dealing with you.”

He let out a low laugh, and she grinned up at him, bumping his shoulder with hers. “C’mon, hero,” she said. “You can’t let them steal your thunder. Go take a bow before the rookies start crying.”

But she didn’t move yet. She tugged gently on his sleeve, keeping him anchored beside her for one more heartbeat. Her eyes softened. “After, though,” she said quietly. “After the noise, the cheers, the beers… let’s sneak out. Just you and me. No crowd. No scoreboard. Just quiet.”

She tilted her head, a small smile curving her lips. “I think you’ve earned that too.”

Tyler couldn’t help the slow smile that crept across his face — the kind that tugged at one corner first, all confidence and quiet heat. The kind that said he knew exactly what she was doing to him and he didn’t mind one damn bit.

“Careful,” he said, voice low enough to get lost beneath the hum of the bar. “Keep saying things like that, and I’ll start thinking you’re trying to make me blush.”

Her words hit like they always did — soft where they could’ve been sharp, steady where the rest of his world had always been noise. He used to think love had to be loud, had to roar to mean something. But Ellie… she had this way of whispering and still shaking the ground under his feet.

He turned his glass in his hand, watching the light catch the amber swirl before glancing back at her. “You know,” he murmured, his grin deepening, “for someone who claims I talk too much, you’re pretty good at giving speeches.”

She laughed, the sound hitting him right in the chest, and he shook his head, letting the teasing fade into something more real. “But you’re right,” he said quietly. “About the noise. About… all of it. I think I just got tired of sprinting toward things that never stayed.”

He leaned closer until her perfume — vanilla and cider and something he could never name — cut through the beer and neon. His voice dropped to a whisper meant only for her. “Then I turned around, and you were there. Still were. Still are.”

When her fingers brushed the seam of his jacket, he caught her hand, turned it over, and pressed his lips just once against her knuckles — nothing showy, just instinct. A small, reverent gesture that felt more like breathing than thinking.

“I don’t need the world to know this version of me,” he said, thumb tracing along her wrist. “It’s not for them.” His gaze lifted, holding hers steady, unwavering. “It’s for you.”

She smiled then — the kind of smile that melted through his practiced calm, that made the noise of the room fade to a dull heartbeat.

At her joke about the team, his grin returned, slow and crooked. “Let them write all the sonnets they want,” he said, voice dipping to a tease again. “Just means I’ll have to dedicate my next goal to you. You know — for the suffering.”

Ellie groaned, rolling her eyes, but he could see the way her cheeks flushed as she tried not to smile. He laughed — a warm, genuine sound that tangled somewhere between affection and disbelief. “You’ve got no idea how much I like watching you pretend you’re not flustered,” he said, his tone light but threaded with something deeper.

When she rested her hand on his chest, his breath hitched, barely. Just enough for her to feel it. His heart was still racing from the game, but it had a different rhythm now — steadier, synced with the small press of her palm.

“I stopped running the minute I realized what I’d lose if I didn’t,” he said softly, meeting her gaze. “Didn’t seem worth it anymore.”

The sounds of the bar swelled again — laughter, clinking bottles, someone calling his name from across the room — but he didn’t move. Not yet.

Her invitation lingered in the air like a promise.

He reached up, brushing his knuckles lightly under her chin so she’d look at him again. “After the noise,” he echoed, voice low and sure. “Yeah, I like that idea.”

He rose from the booth then, letting her hand slide into his as he stood, his grin catching in the amber light. “But just so you know,” he said, smirking down at her, “if anyone starts crying, it’s not the rookies. It’s definitely me — when I realize I’ve got to share the spotlight with you.”

Her laugh followed him as he tugged her to her feet, and he swore it was better than the roar of any crowd.

As he led her back toward the team — hand still loosely linked with hers, heads turning as they passed — he threw her a look over his shoulder, that same confident, half-wicked grin that always got her. “Come on, Tate,” he murmured, eyes glinting under the lights. “Let’s give them something worth writing sonnets about.”

And for the first time that night, he didn’t feel like the man everyone came to celebrate.
He felt like the man who finally knew where he belonged — and who he’d been running toward all along.

Ellie’s lips curved into a small, knowing smile — the kind that flickered up before she even realized it, warmth rising to her cheeks in spite of herself. “Make you blush?” she murmured, her voice just loud enough for him to catch over the hum of the bar. “Please, you’re the last person on earth who even can blush. I’ve seen you take a slapshot to the ribs without flinching.”

Her hand brushed his arm as she said it, casual, but her pulse jumped when he smiled back — that slow, deliberate thing that always made her forget how to breathe for half a second. “But hey,” she added, tipping her head playfully, “if I finally figured out how to make Tyler Harrison lose his cool, I’m framing this moment.”

When he teased her about giving speeches, Ellie let out a soft laugh, shaking her head as she leaned in closer. “Oh, don’t start,” she said. “If I let you do all the talking, we’d both walk out of here thinking you invented emotional depth. Someone’s gotta keep your ego in check.”

Her words were light, but her eyes softened as he went on. That quiet part of him — the one that always snuck up between the sarcasm and the swagger — was her favorite. The one that still surprised her sometimes with how much heart it carried.

“You didn’t sprint toward the wrong things,” she said after a moment, voice low but sure. “You just didn’t know what ‘staying’ looked like yet.” Her thumb brushed over the back of his hand without thinking. “You figured it out. That’s what matters.”

When he whispered, Then I turned around, and you were there, she froze — not because it startled her, but because it hit deeper than she expected. “I wasn’t going anywhere,” she said quietly, smiling faintly. “I just figured you’d get tired of the noise eventually.”

Then he caught her hand and kissed it — just that soft, instinctive press of his lips — and her stomach flipped, the kind of weightless, dizzy warmth that only he could cause. Her breath caught halfway, but she covered it with a smile that came out smaller, gentler than usual.

“You don’t need to give this version of you to anyone else,” she whispered. “But I hope you know… you deserve to be him, even when no one’s watching.”

Her laugh came bright and helpless when he brought up dedicating a goal. “Absolutely not,” she said, shaking her head so quickly her hair brushed his shoulder. “You do that, and I swear I’ll fake a connection to the opposing team just to balance the press coverage.” She tried to glare, but the grin betrayed her. “You’re ridiculous. Completely, hopelessly ridiculous.”

When he said he liked watching her pretend not to be flustered, Ellie huffed, crossing her arms even as her cheeks pinked. “You’re imagining it,” she said, voice mock-serious. “I’m perfectly composed. Always have been.” Her gaze flicked toward him, teasing. “You’re just easy to mess with.”

He laughed, that deep, unguarded sound she loved — and something in her chest tightened. She let her hand fall to his chest then, feeling the warmth beneath her palm, the steady pulse just under her fingers. Her voice softened again. “You didn’t lose anything when you stopped running, you know,” she said. “You just made room for the right things to catch up.”

His words — After the noise — made her smile widen, the corners of her mouth softening into something more private. “Yeah,” she murmured, gaze catching his. “After the noise. That’s our sweet spot.”

When he stood and tugged her up, her fingers slid easily into his, their hands falling together like second nature. His line about crying pulled another laugh out of her — warm and light. “If you start crying, I’m filming it,” she said, nudging his arm as she followed. “You’ll never live it down. I’ll make sure the whole locker room sees it.”

Her smile lingered as he led her toward the team, the cheers swelling again as the crowd noticed. And when he turned back with that grin — the one that was all trouble and tenderness rolled into one — Ellie arched an eyebrow.

“Something worth writing sonnets about?” she said, her tone low and playful. “I don’t know, Harrison, I think you already used up all your good lines on me tonight.”

Still, when they reached the others and the noise grew louder again, she stepped in closer, her hand finding his under the table, her voice just for him. “But if you’re serious,” she whispered, leaning up just enough to brush her lips against his jaw, “then make it a good one. Make it ours.”

And when he looked down at her — that same look that used to undo her completely — she smiled, small but sure. “For what it’s worth,” she said softly, “I think this is the best kind of spotlight you’ve ever had.”

Her thumb brushed the side of his hand once more before she added, quieter still, “And I’m really glad you finally stopped running long enough to see it.”

Tyler’s smirk slid slow across his face, a flicker of something cocky tangled with something softer — that dangerous middle ground he’d never let anyone else see. The bar lights hit his hair just right, golden streaks catching under the neon, and he tilted his head toward her like he couldn’t help himself.

“Layers, Tate,” he said, voice low and amused. “You forget, I’ve got layers. Somewhere under all the trash talk and charm, there’s a sensitive, emotionally complex man. Occasionally prone to blushing.”

Her brow lifted in disbelief, and he grinned wider. “Don’t look so shocked. I can blush,” he added, mock serious. “It’s just hard to tell with all the natural good looks in the way.”

She tried to hide her laugh behind her glass, but it didn’t work — and God, he loved that. That laugh, that tiny tilt of her head, the way her eyes softened right after like she’d accidentally let him see more than she meant to.

He leaned closer, his shoulder brushing hers, voice dropping so only she could hear. “See? That right there,” he murmured. “That’s why I stopped running. Nobody makes me feel like this—like I’m actually worth standing still for.”

The words hung between them, quiet but certain, and for a beat, neither of them spoke. The noise of the bar blurred — teammates yelling over one another, someone knocking over a beer bottle, the jukebox starting up again — but all he saw was her.

She told him he didn’t lose anything when he stopped running, and it made his chest tighten in that frustratingly good way. Tyler had always been a runner — from pressure, from feelings, from himself. But Ellie… Ellie didn’t chase. She waited. She believed he’d find his way back when he was ready.

And he did. Straight into her.

He caught her hand again, thumb tracing lazy circles over her skin. “You really think you’ve got me figured out, huh?” he said, his grin returning, slow and sure. “Maybe I stopped running, but don’t get too comfortable. I’ve still got a reputation for keeping you on your toes.”

When she warned she’d film him crying, he let out a warm, low laugh. “If I cry, it’ll only be because you said something poetic again. You’ve got a dangerous way with words, you know that? The kind that could ruin a guy’s cool factor in front of the team.”

Her smile widened, and he bent down, his voice dipping against her ear as he added, “Lucky for me, I’ve got enough charm to recover.”

They made their way toward the others, hands brushing now and then — small, unspoken reminders that this was theirs. The bar noise swelled, but Ellie stayed close, her hand slipping into his under the table when they sat. Tyler caught her glance from the corner of his eye, that little smirk tugging at her mouth like she was daring him to say something.

When she teased him about using up his good lines, he chuckled, resting his arm along the back of her chair. “Oh, sweetheart,” he said, eyes glinting, “I don’t run out of good lines. I just save the best ones for you.”

The words earned him a look — half amused, half something else entirely — and he could feel her thumb tracing along his knuckles again, grounding him in a way that had nothing to do with the beer or the win.

Then she leaned up, her lips brushing his jaw as she whispered, Make it ours.

That one hit like a damn power play.

Tyler’s grin softened, but it didn’t fade. “Ours,” he echoed, tasting the word like it was a promise. “Yeah. I can do that.”

The team cheered again behind them, another round of victory chants rising, but he barely heard it. He looked at her — her, with the flushed cheeks and the quiet confidence that somehow made him feel like the room existed just to hold the two of them — and he realized he didn’t need to chase the high anymore.

It was right here.

He leaned in, brushing a quick kiss against her temple, a quiet grin curving his lips as he murmured, “You know, Tate… for someone who claims to keep me humble, you sure make it hard to stay grounded.”

Her soft laugh hit him like a spark, and he smiled into it — that full, unguarded, too-happy smile he never let anyone else see.

“Yeah,” he said finally, his tone easy, confident, sure. “You’re right. This is the best kind of spotlight.”