"Seems your policy review came just in time, Tim," Sutton says dryly. “I guess the fans have spoken.”
Tim slips his phone back into his pocket. "Funny how quickly public sentiment can clarify organizational values, right?" He turns to me, extending his hand. "Dr. Sinclair, welcome to the family, so to speak. I believe my nephew is waiting for you."
Confused but cautiously optimistic, I thank them and exit the conference room. As I walk through the facility halls, staffmembers smile at me knowingly, and a few give me a thumbs up or say quiet congratulations.
What is happening?
The parking lot is nearly empty when I reach it, most of the staff and media have left. I'm halfway to my car when I spot a familiar figure leaning against it, hands in pockets, expression uncertain.
Alder straightens as I approach, his suit jacket discarded, tie loosened—the corporate veneer slipping away to reveal the man I've missed so desperately.
We stand facing each other, the space between us charged with everything said and unsaid at the press conference.
"I'm sorry," he begins, "for speaking about you without permission. I should have?—"
"You said you play better when you're whole," I interrupt. "What did you mean?"
He blinks, then his expression shifts to something more open, more vulnerable. "I meant that I'm better at everything when you're in my life. Happier. More focused. More... me."
The simplicity of his answer, the raw honesty of it, makes my chest ache.
I press a palm to his face, his skin smooth and soft. “You told them to trade you.” My voice is a cracked whisper.
He purses his lips. “That was impulsive. And they shot that idea down real quick. Turns out it’s better to address the actual problem head-on.”
"I have something to show you," I say, pulling the folder from my bag. I hand him the disclosure forms, watching as he scans them, understanding dawning in his eyes.
"Management gave me these. It's not either/or, Alder. It's complicated, but possible." I take a breath. "There's a path forward if we want it."
He looks up from the papers, hope and caution warring in his expression. "So where does that leave us?"
The question hangs between us, encompassing so much more than this moment, this parking garage, this day of revelations.
"It leaves us with a choice," I say, my voice steady despite my racing heart. "And I think I'm ready to make mine."
I step forward, closing the distance I've been so careful to maintain. His hands come up instinctively to steady me, warm and solid against my waist.
"I've spent my whole life making myself smaller," I whisper. "For Brad. For my mother. For my career. I don't want to do that anymore."
Alder's eyes never leave mine, intense and blue and full of a longing that matches mine. "You should never be anything but exactly who you are, Lena. That's who I—" He stops and swallows. "That's who I've fallen for."
The word hangs unspoken between us: fallen. Not a summer fling. Not a convenient arrangement. Something real and lasting and worth fighting for.
A small commotion draws my attention past Alder's shoulder. To my astonishment, a group of fans has gathered at the edge of the parking lot, some holding hastily made signs. "Hockey Heart Healer" reads one. "Let The Fury Love!" proclaims another.
"What in the world?" I murmur.
Alder glances behind him, shaking his head with a bemused smile. "Fury fans move fast." He turns back to me, his expression serious despite the growing crowd. "Does it bother you? The attention?"
I consider this, watching as more fans arrive, most keeping a respectful distance but making their support clear. A few months ago, this kind of public scrutiny would have terrified me and sent me retreating into invisibility.
But today, I find I don't mind being seen. Not if I'm being seen with him.
A cheer erupts from the crowd as he pulls me into his arms, lips finding mine in a kiss that feels like coming home. The sound barely registers—all I can focus on is Alder, solid and real against me, his hands steady on my waist, his heartbeat strong beneath my palm.
When we finally break apart, breathless and laughing, he rests his forehead against mine. "That was very unprofessional, Dr. Sinclair."
"I have paperwork," I remind him with a smile. "We're allowed now."
