Chapter 34 GOLDEN BOY
RYAN
I'm—finally—Sean Callahan's girl.
The words look ridiculous in my head, like something I'd scribble in the margins of Rae's notes just to make her gag, but there it is. And I have to admit: even if it meant cosplaying a puck bunny, even if it meant swallowing my pride and wearing his jersey, it was worth every single second.
When the boys are finally done with the endless process of interviews, photos, and getting suited up, Emma, Rae, and I huddle together outside the arena, buzzing like we've mainlined caffeine. I wish we were allowed to ride the bus back with them, to soak up that inside energy, but instead we've got Zach—loud, restless, vibrating with the kind of contagious energy only he can bring. He's been a live wire since the final whistle, cracking jokes, fake-commentating every pedestrian we pass as if they're part of a highlight reel. Rae rolls her eyes at him every other second, but she's smiling too, and Emma keeps laughing so hard she hiccups.
By the time the boys start filing out, the crowd waiting outside is a crush of faces—students, alumni, random fans who caught wind of history being made. Signs. Phones out. The buzz of a championship city.
And then there's Sean.
He pushes through the door, duffel slung over his shoulder, hair still damp from the shower. A captain, a champion. He barely gets two steps before people swarm him—fans thrusting hats to sign, girls leaning a little too close, flashes going off in his face. He handles it the way he always does: polite, steady, that half-grin that could sell season tickets.
But his eyes never leave mine.
Through all of it—the girls twirling their hair, the guys yelling his name, the cameras trying to catch a moment—his gaze hooks on me and doesn't let go.
And suddenly, I don't feel like one of a crowd. I feel like the only girl in the whole damn world.
My stomach flips in a way that's both humiliating and addicting. He's Sean Callahan, center of the storm, and yet here he is, looking at me like I'm the calm inside it.
Rae nudges me. "Gross. He's staring at you."
"Shut up," I mutter, cheeks hot.
Emma giggles. "Oh my God, Ry. He's totally tunnel-visioned."
"Like he doesn't even notice the girls right in front of him," Zach adds, and for once, his teasing doesn't sound like mockery—it sounds impressed.
Sean breaks away finally, ignoring half a dozen hands reaching for him, and strides straight to me. The crowd might as well part like the Red Sea, because he doesn't slow down.
When he stops in front of me, he doesn't say anything at first—just tips his head down, eyes glittering, grin curling wider. And then he leans close enough that only I can hear.
"Nice jersey."
I bite back a laugh. "Thought it'd bring you luck."
He tilts his head, still holding my eyes. "Guess it worked."
My chest tightens, in that terrifying, exhilarating way it only does around him.
Behind us, Rae groans loudly. "I'm gonna puke. Let's just get to the party before I lose my dinner."
Sean laughs low in his throat, the sound vibrating through me. He takes my hand—openly, deliberately, no hesitation—and laces his fingers through mine before leading us toward the cars.
But then he stops. Turns back to me like he's made up his mind about something.
Before I can even ask, he leans down and kisses me.
Not a quick peck. Not something subtle. A full, hungry, I-don't-care-who's-watching kind of kiss that makes my knees forget their job description.
For a split second the whole world goes silent—just the heat of his mouth, the press of his chest, the dizzying rush of being pulled against him in front of everyone. Then the noise comes back all at once.
The crowd erupts.
There's a wave of "oooohs" and "ahhhhhs," phones snapping pictures from every angle, cheers echoing like we're the encore after the championship. Somewhere behind us Rae mutters, "Jesus Christ, you two," but even she's laughing. Emma squeals something that sounds like joy and embarrassment tangled together. Zach whoops loud enough to rattle the pavement.
Sean doesn't flinch. Doesn't break the kiss until he's good and ready. When he finally pulls back, he's grinning like he just scored in overtime.
"Now they know," he says, voice rough, thumb brushing across my jaw in a way that makes me forget how to breathe.
And all I can think, with the crowd still buzzing around us and cameras catching it from every angle, is that I don't care what headline tomorrow runs with.
Because in this moment, I'm not pretending. I'm his.
〰️〰️〰️
By the time we make it to the hockey house, the whole place is already vibrating. Music shakes the windows, the porch is jammed with people, and red-and-white flags hang from the second-story railing like war banners. Somebody dragged the trophy here—it's on the kitchen table, surrounded by a fortress of empty pizza boxes and cheap champagne.
The moment Sean and the boys step inside, the house detonates.
"BU! BU! BU!" The chant rattles the floorboards. Ty is lifted onto someone's shoulders within seconds, arms spread like a king. Mason's already halfway to starting a keg stand. Zach kicks the front door closed behind us and bellows, "Champions, baby!" like he personally won the game by heckling from the stands.
Sean doesn't let go of my hand. Not once.
People are everywhere—fans, teammates, random girls trying to slide into the orbit. Every time someone tries to pull him away, he gives them the captain-smile, signs whatever, nods, but his fingers stay locked with mine. A physical anchor in the middle of the chaos.
I get shoved a Solo cup filled with something aggressively neon. Rae clinks hers against mine and shouts over the music, "Cosplaying a puck bunny never looked so good on you, McKenna!"
I groan and take a sip that burns like paint thinner. "You're never letting me live this down, are you?"
"Not a chance." She grins, then yells toward the crowd, "Callahan's girl over here!"
The room erupts in cheers and wolf whistles. My face flames. Sean just chuckles, tugging me closer to his side, arm sliding low around my waist.
Emma squeezes through the crowd, flushed and beaming. "We did it! Oh my God, we actually did it!" She throws her arms around Sean, then me, nearly spilling her drink on all three of us. Ty shuffles past, still riding his goalie high, chanting "brick wall, brick wall" while people smack his shoulders.
The music cuts for a second, and Mason's voice takes over like he owns the place. "Raise a glass to the captain! To the man who buried the game-winner like a goddamn legend!"
The roar that follows is deafening. Cups lift, beer sprays, the floor shakes. Sean just shakes his head, embarrassed, pulling me tighter as if to hide behind me. His mouth brushes my ear. "This is insane."
I tilt up to him, smiling. "You love it."
His answering grin is all teeth and light. "Only part I love is you in my jersey."
And then he kisses me again, right there in the middle of the chaos, like he doesn't care who's watching. The crowd goes wild—cheers, laughter, a few exaggerated "get a room!" shouts. But the noise fades for me, replaced by the taste of him, the certainty of his hand cupping the back of my neck.
When he pulls away, his forehead rests against mine, his breath warm against my lips. "You're stuck with me now, McKenna."
And with the whole house exploding around us, the trophy gleaming under terrible kitchen lighting, and the chant of BU! BU! BU! shaking the walls, I know there's nowhere else I'd rather be.
The house is a zoo, yes. With weirder animals than its natural inhabitants, believe it or not.
Music blasts so loud I can feel the bass in my sternum, people are shoulder-to-shoulder in every hallway, and the floor's already sticky with spilled beer. The trophy has migrated to the living room coffee table, ringed by shot glasses like some kind of shrine. Everyone who walks in takes a picture with it. At one point I swear I see a freshman try to drink from it before Mason smacks his hand away like a bouncer.
Sean stays close. He hasn't let go of me since outside the arena, and the part of me that usually rolls my eyes at PDA is... oddly okay with it. More than okay. Every time someone else tries to pull him into a conversation, he gives them a nod, a smile, a handshake—but his hand finds my waist, my shoulder, my wrist again and again, like he's tethering us both in the chaos.
"Okay," Rae yells over the music, pressing a fresh drink into my hand. "I hate to admit it, but watching you two make out in front of an arena full of people? Kind of iconic."
"Shut up," I say, but my cheeks burn.
"No, really." She smirks. "I almost respect it. Almost."
Emma stumbles up beside us, already pink-cheeked from half a beer, and throws an arm around Rae's shoulders. "I'm just so proud! Our boys! Champions!" She practically sings it, bouncing like she might combust.
Across the room, Ty is holding court with a crowd of strangers, using empty cans to diagram how he "saw that Yale wrister the whole way." Judging by his wide gestures and the way people are nodding, they actually believe him.
Mason interrupts with a tray of shots balanced on his palms like a waiter at a five-star restaurant. "Ladies! To champions and bad decisions!"
"Mostly bad decisions," Rae mutters, but she still takes one.
We clink plastic and throw them back. It burns like liquid fire. Emma coughs so hard Rae has to thump her back. Mason just grins like a devil, and Ty yells across the room, "Stop poisoning people, Cross!"
"Building tolerance!" Mason shoots back, then throws me a wink. "Besides, McKenna's wearing Callahan's jersey, which means tonight's invincible."
I groan. "You're never letting me live this down, are you?"
"Not a chance," he says, smug.
Sean appears behind him, slipping an arm around my waist, voice low in my ear. "Want some air?"
I nod so fast it's embarrassing.
He guides me through the press of people, his hand firm at my back, until we slip into the kitchen. The noise dulls to a muffled roar behind us. It's still crowded—this is a hockey house, after all—but we find a corner near the fridge where no one's paying much attention.
Sean leans against the counter, tugging me in front of him. His hands slide around my hips, his chin dipping so his breath warms my ear. "Better?"
I exhale, nodding. "Much."
For a second it's just us—the hum of the fridge, the faint beat of music bleeding through the walls, the glow of the overhead light bouncing off the edge of his jaw. His eyes search mine, soft in a way that makes my chest ache.
"You were incredible tonight," I whisper.
His mouth curves, slow. "Pretty sure that was the point of the jersey."
I laugh, pressing a hand against his chest. "Cocky."
"Confident," he corrects, before kissing me again.
It's slower here, softer—nothing like the wild, public kiss outside the arena. His lips move against mine like he's memorizing me, like he's trying to anchor this night in something more permanent than a scoreboard.
Someone barges into the kitchen, yelling for ice, and we break apart with matching smirks. Sean laces his fingers through mine again and leads me back out, straight into chaos.
The living room is louder than ever—half the team chanting Ty's name, the other half heckling Mason for shirtless push-ups in the middle of the rug. Zach has climbed onto the couch and is leading the crowd in a horribly off-key rendition of "Sweet Caroline." Rae looks mortified to be next to him, but she's still yelling so good, so good, so good at the top of her lungs.
Sean shakes his head, amused. "God, I'm gonna miss this."
I glance up at him. "Miss what?"
"This house. These idiots." His gaze lingers on Zach, who's now trying to crowd-surf in a living room that definitely isn't built for it. "Our stories. Even the stupid banter. Bruins will be great, but this? This is once."
The weight in his words makes my stomach twist, but before I can answer, Mason spots us and yells, "Hey, Callahan, get your ass over here! Champion dance circle!"
Sean groans. "God help me."
I laugh, tugging at his hand. "Go. I'll watch."
He hesitates—like maybe he doesn't want to let go of me even for that—but finally lets himself be dragged into the circle. The crowd cheers, music shifts, and suddenly my captain—my boy—is dancing like he's been possessed by bad rhythm and zero shame. Mason hypes him up like he's headlining Coachella. Ty nearly falls off the couch laughing.
And me? I just stand there in his jersey, drink in hand, watching the chaos, my cheeks aching from smiling.
Because this night—loud, messy, unforgettable—is ours.