Four months later
“Thank you, Kansas City. Good night.” I wave and walk off the stage, grabbing the towel that Eddie, our new road hand, passes me. I pat the sweat from my forehead and remove my earpiece as I glance at Lana. “Well?”
She smiles. “Great show.”
“Not that. How did he do?”
“They made it.”
“Oh my god,” I screech. “What was the score?”
“Seven–one.”
“Holy shit! They creamed them.”
“Er, Stella . . . your mic is still on,” Eddie says, and I glance down at the mic in my hand and grin. I shove my earpiece back in before Eddie can unhook me. “Y’all, my man made it to the Stanley Cup Playoffs.” A roar goes up from the crowd, and I decide I’m not done celebrating just yet so I back away from my manager and crew.
“Stella, no,” Lana says, but I turn and walk back onto the stage. “Kansas City, my man is going to the Stanley Cup!”
Another deafening roar goes up. “Okay, so, I’m supposed to be boarding the bus in just a few minutes and taking off for Grand Forks, North Dakota, but I think we need another song to celebrate, huh? Eddie, can I get a guitar, please?”
Eddie brings me the guitar that Van gave to me, and two more roadies place a stool and a mic stand on the stage for me to sit on. “Thank you.” I slide the microphone in the clip, and plant my butt. I stroke the pearly bluebird for good luck. “So, Van Ross bought me this guitar; it belonged to Queen Loretta, and it even has an inscription on the neck. He’s kind of a dirty boy, though, so I’m not going to read that to you.”
The crowd cheers. One person even screams, “I love Van Ross.”
“I do too,” I say into the microphone.
“Marry me, Stella,” a man in the front row demands. He’s holding a bright neon pink sign above his head that echo his words.
“What’s your name, sir?”
“Travis,” he shouts.
“Well, Travis, that’s real sweet of you, but I’m kind of waiting on another man to ask. See, it’s been four months since I’ve seen him. Four months is a real long time to wait, y’all.”
“I won’t make you wait, Stella. I’ll marry you right now.”
I laugh. “I can’t marry you. It wouldn’t be fair when I’m hung up on someone else.” I pluck a few strings on my guitar. “How many single ladies do we have in the house tonight?”
Another roar comes from the crowd, and several women stick up their hands. “Any of you ladies wanna marry Travis?”
A woman with black roots and blond hair two rows back pushes toward the front, shouting, “I’ll marry him.”
“Well alright then. Looks like we just found you a wife, Travis. Y’all make sure to introduce yourselves.” I strum my guitar. “I want to play you guys a little song I wrote when I was holed up in a cabin in the Canadian Rockies, but I need your help. I know you know that the venue does not allow camera phones and flash photography inside this stadium yadda, yadda, yadda, but you know what? I’m so damn proud of my man, I wanna break the internet. So, get out your phones. Eddie, can we dim the lights, please?”
The lights go down, and a hush falls over the audience. “Why, thank you, kind sir. Okay, Kansas City, this song isn’t supposed to drop until next week, and my manager is standing over there shaking her head right now, but a wise man once told me to do what you want, to break the rules and to hell with the consequences. He has to be right, because he’s going to the Stanley Cup, so here’s me breaking the rules. I want you guys to record this. Film it, Instagram it, send it, share it—make sure you tag the Calgary Crushers in it and congratulate them on their win. And, Van, honey.” I shake my head. “I’m so damn proud of you. You better come see me soon, because I miss you like crazy, and I wrote this for you.”
For the next three minutes, I pour my heart out to the whole world, and that stage feels like home. When I’m done, I stand and blow the crowd a kiss. “Thank you, Kansas City. Good night.”
I practically skip off the stage. The audience roars as they stamp their feet and holler, “encore,” but I’m spent for one night. Besides, I have a hot hockey hero to congratulate. The last four months have been hell on the both of us, and we Skype as often as we can. Seeing him on a computer screen, though, is not the same thing as having him up close, and some days we both wonder if it’s all worth it. Nights like this one give us the answer to that question, though.
Lana glares at me. “What the hell was that? I’m going to have the label chewing me out for ruining their spotlight.”
“That was me living in the moment, and giving back to my crowd. Oh, and my man is going to the damn Stanley Cup.” I kiss her cheek and traipse away from the stage toward the dressing room.
There are fans to greet and pictures to take, and I know he’ll be tied up in interviews and sponsorship drinks and all of that. There’s a good chance he’s already seen me congratulate him on the world’s stage, so I figure we can wait a little longer to speak to one another. I take a quick shower on the bus, and scrub my face clean of makeup, and then I find my phone. There are a hundred missed calls. I smile to myself and dial his number.
“Country?” he says. There’s so much noise in the background I can barely hear him.
“Congratulations, hockey hero.”
“I saw your little song there, babe. Nice touch.”
“I’m so proud of you,” I crow.
“Wait. I gotta head outside.”
“Okay,” I tell him, but it’s probably lost to the noise of the party.
The racket dies down, and his sexy voice comes through crystal clear. “Baby, I miss you so goddamn much.”
“I know. I miss you too.”
“I’m coming to see you, as soon as I can. Coach has got us training these four days before the cup, but the second that thing is in our possession I’m coming home to you.”
I smile and fall back on my bed. “Home, huh?”
“You know what I mean.”
“I like the sound of that.”
“And I like the sound of your voice in my ear as you come.” He sighs. “I wish you were here, babe.”
“Well, you know I may not be there to come in your ear, but we could always video call and watch one another.”
He gasps. “Jesus, Stella, I almost dropped the phone. You can’t say shit like that.”
“Sorry. I just miss that handsome face, and that great hockey butt.”
There a beat of silence, and I wonder if he’s lost reception, but he clears his throat and I know I’ve just stunned him into silence. “Are you serious?”
“Maybe?”
“Fuck. I’m in a public restroom.”
“Is there a locking door?”
“In one of the cubicles, yeah, but anyone could walk in and hear us.”
“No one has to know. We could be real quiet,” I tease.
“Jesus Christ. I’m so hard just hearing that.”
“I’m game if you are,” I whisper.
He puffs out a huge breath. “Okay. Hang up. I’ll call you back via video.”
“I love you, Van,” I say, in as sultry a voice as I can muster without feeling like an idiot.
He groans. “I love you too, baby. So fucking much.”