Page 157 of Unmanageable

And as any goalie will tell you, the hardest part of the game isn’t making the spectacular, diving save—it’s the quiet, steady knowledge that someone has your back when the puck finally, inevitably gets past you.

For thirty years, I thought I had to be the wall all by myself.

Tonight, looking at her, I realize I have a defense I can trust.

This is the life.

It’s messy. It’s cold. It’s loud. It’s healing.

It’s perfectly, uniquely ours.

I look back into the living room, where Brick is currently explaining to a horrified, note-taking Noah why a baby’s first word should be glove-save instead of mama, and I realize I have everything I never knew I was allowed to ask for.

“I love you, Scottie O’Connell,” I whisper into the night air.

“I haven’t legally changed the name yet. Don’t push your luck.” She argues because of course she does, but a second later she continues, leaning into me with an expression that softens all the sharp edges of her face. “But for the record? I love you too. Always.”

Epilogue: Jenna

My office is a glitter-dusted disaster zone.

It’s a shrine to the Boston Reign, if you consider a wall of Polaroids, three different shades of neon highlighter bleeding into my mahogany desk, and a stack of press releases that smell like expensive coffee to be a “shrine.”

I am midway through color-coding the social media roll out for the upcoming trade deadline when my office door swings open without the courtesy of a knock.

“Unless the arena is currently on fire, or someone accidentally live-streamed a fight in the locker room, I am busy,” I say, not looking up from my screen.

“The arena is fine,” Scottie replies.

She waddles in, looking like the goddess of motherhood in an oversized Reign hoodie that definitely belongs to Cash. She is cradling a jar of spicy pickles like it’s a religious artifact, her grip firm and protective.

“The locker room, however, is currently embroiled in a heated debate over whether pineapple belongs on pizza,” she adds, “which I am told is far more dangerous than any fire.”

Cash follows her in, moving with that practiced, alert grace of a man who spends his life protecting things. He’s scanning the room for hazards, his eyes flicking to the open window and then back to me.

“She needed the spicy ones,” Cash says, gesturing toward the jar. “The ones from that deli three towns over. I almost got a ticket on the way here, and I’m pretty sure the guy at the counter thought I was kidnapping her because she was literally crying about the jar being stuck.”

“It wasn’t stuck,” Scottie corrects him, cracking the lid with a triumphant pop. “It was challenging my authority. I was just asserting dominance.”

“Did you win?” I ask, finally spinning my chair around to face them.

“Obviously,” she says, popping a pickle into her mouth and looking entirely pleased with herself.

I lean back, crossing my arms over my chest. Cash catches me looking, his brow furrowing in that way that usually means he’s calculating how much trouble he can get into before I officially start the clock on the next PR nightmare.

“How’s the headache, Jenna?” Cash asks, his voice dropping an octave, eyes lingering on my desk.

“The headache is currently reviewing the head shots for the new prospect,” I tell him. “I haven’t even looked at the bio yet. Dean has been hoarding it like it’s the Magna Carta.”

“Dean is busy being a lawyer,” Scottie says, rolling her eyes. “He thinks if he doesn’t scrutinize every single comma in a contract, the Boston Reign is going to implode by tomorrow morning.”

“He’s a professional buzzkill in a very hot suit,” I agree.

“I can hear you,” Dean’s voice cuts through the hallway before he even arrives.

He appears in the doorway, looking like he’s just stepped off a runway, save for the thick manila folder in his hand. He looks at Scottie, and his face softens—the sharp, guarded lines around his eyes relaxing completely.

“How’s the appetite?” he asks her.