Page 78 of The Man in the Cottage

Kelly

The arena is louder than anything I've ever experienced.

I'm sitting in the stands at the 4 Nations Face-Off—Team USA versus Canada, the biggest hockey event of the year—and I can barely hear myself think. The crowd is a wall of sound, chanting and stomping and screaming every time something happens on the ice. I don't understand most of what's happening, but I'm learning.

Travis taught me the basics over the past few weeks. Offsides, icing, power plays. The difference between a slap shot and a wrist shot. Why everyone gets so excited when the puck crosses that little red line. I'm still confused half the time, but I know enough to follow along.

And I know enough to know that number seventeen, the one with HOWE on his back, is having a hell of a game.

His suspension ended two weeks ago. The team welcomed him back with open arms—or at least, that's what the press releases said. The reality was probably more complicated. Travis told me there were meetings, conversations with coaches and teammates, a careful process of reintegration. But whatever happened behind closed doors, the result is this: Travis Howe, back on the ice, playing for his country in the biggest tournament of his career.

I watch him skate, and I barely recognize him. This isn't the quiet man who fixed my sink and helped with my book. This is someone else entirely—fierce and focused, moving across the ice like he was born there. He's been in three fights already, clean hits that the announcers keep praising, and every time he touches the puck the crowd roars.

"He's really good," Nicole says beside me. She came with me, insisted on it, said she wasn't going to let me experience my first hockey game alone. "Like, actually really good. I didn't realize."

"Neither did I. Not really." I watch Travis steal the puck from a Canadian player and send it sailing toward the goal. The goalie catches it, but the crowd cheers anyway. "He always talked about hockey like it was something he used to do. Past tense. I didn't understand how much he loved it."

"Do you think he's going to keep playing? After this?"

"I don't know. We haven't talked about it." I haven't wanted to push. Whatever Travis decides about his career, I want it to be his decision, not something he feels pressured into because of me. "I think he's still figuring it out."

The first period ends, and the players skate off the ice. I lose sight of Travis in the crowd of jerseys, but I know he's in there somewhere. Probably getting instructions from coaches, hydrating, doing whatever hockey players do during intermission.

"I still can't believe we're here," Nicole says, looking around at the arena. "VIP seats at the 4 Nations Face-Off. Dating a professional athlete is apparently very glamorous."

"It's not always like this. Usually it's just him coming over for coffee and me pretending to write while actually staring at him."

"That sounds pretty good too."

"It is." I smile. "It really is."

The past month has been a whirlwind. After the media story died down, after Travis cut off his family, things got easier. Not perfect—there were still moments of doubt, still days when I couldn't believe any of this was real—but easier. We fell into a rhythm. Coffee in the mornings, dinner most nights, long conversations that stretched past midnight. He helped me finish the first draft of my book. I helped him figure out what he wanted to do with his life.

Turns out, what he wanted was this. Back on the ice, playing the game he'd loved since he was five years old. Not because anyone pressured him, not because of obligation or expectation. Just because he missed it.

"I forgot how much I loved it," he told me the night before he left for the tournament. "Being part of something bigger than myself. Working toward a goal with a team. I thought I was done with that, but I'm not."

"So you're going back? For real?"

"For real." He pulled me close, his chin resting on top of my head. "But only if you're okay with it. The traveling, the schedule, the attention. It's a lot. I understand if it's not what you signed up for."

"I signed up for you," I said. "The rest is just details."

He laughed at that—my own words, thrown back at me—and kissed me until I forgot what we were talking about.

Now I'm here, in this arena, wearing his jersey with his name on my back, watching him play the game he loves. The cameras have found me a few times—I've seen myself on the jumbotron, felt the curious stares of people wondering who I am. There'll probably be articles tomorrow. Photos, speculation, commentary on my outfit and my hair and whether I'm the same gold digger from the tabloids.

I don't care.

That's the part that surprises me most. A month ago, the thought of being photographed, of being scrutinized, would have sent me into a spiral. But something shifted after the media storm. I realized that the only opinions that matter are from people who actually know me. Everyone else is just noise.

Besides, I look good in this jersey. Travis's number, Travis's name, stretched across my back. It feels like a statement without saying a word. I'm here. I'm with him. Deal with it.

"You're smiling," Nicole says.

"Am I?"

"You have been since we sat down." She bumps her shoulder against mine. "It's a good look on you."