Grumpfest Bonus Scene

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One Year Later

Lily

Oh my God, Lily, you’re writing the bonus epilogue yourself! Get it together, girl. You can do this. Just channel your inner romance novelist and everything will be fine…

Somewhere Over the Romantic Rainbow

The sound of skates cutting across ice still made my heart skip like I was fourteen with my first crush. But now, it was for entirely different reasons—namely, watching my boyfriend’s ass flex in those hockey pants as he powered across the rink.

A year had passed since the charity gala that changed everything. The Sunblades had just finished their best regular season in franchise history, and Max Harrison—once known exclusively as “The Grump”—had somehow become the team’s unofficial heart. Don’t tell Jack, though. As team captain, he’s still convinced that position belongs to him, along with “best hair” and “most humble,” neither of which are remotely accurate.

I leaned against the boards, watching Max work with Jamie—that same kid from last year’s hockey clinic who’d now become a regular fixture at team practices. The Sunblades’ Youth Outreach Program had exploded under my direction (not to brag, but Griffon had actually used the word “exceptional” in my performance review, which made me hyperventilate in the bathroom for approximately seven minutes). I even received another promotion, making me one of the highest paid PR managers in Orlando currently.

But it was Max who truly transformed the program from corporate initiative to genuine impact. He’d started mentoring kids, particularly those who showed interest in either hockey or music. Watching him now, patiently demonstrating proper stick handling to Jamie, I could hardly believe this was the same man who once growled at me for suggesting he pose with a puppy.

“Ms. Lily!” Jamie waved enthusiastically, his too-big helmet wobbling precariously. “Did you see? I hit the puck three times without missing!”

“I saw!” I called back, giving him an exaggerated thumbs-up. “You’re basically ready for the NHL draft!”

Max caught my eye over Jamie’s head, that now-familiar almost-smile playing at the corner of his mouth. That smile still did dangerous things to my internal organs. A year of waking up next to him hadn’t diminished its effect one bit.

“Alright, bud,” Max ruffled Jamie’s hair as the boy removed his helmet. “Same time next week? We’ll work on your slap shot.”

Jamie’s face lit up like he’d been offered the Stanley Cup itself. “For real? A slap shot?”

“For real,” Max confirmed, his voice gruff but gentle in that way that was exclusively reserved for kids and occasionally me, during moments I’d never repeat in polite company. “But only if you keep up with your reading. I’m checking with your mom.”

Jamie nodded so vigorously I feared for his neck vertebrae. “I’m already two chapters ahead! Mom says I’m reading above grade level now!”

“That’s what I like to hear.” Max bumped fists with him, then watched as Jamie carefully made his way off the ice, his small figure eventually disappearing down the tunnel with his waiting parent.

Left alone in the Citrus Center, Max skated over to me, his movements as graceful and powerful as they’d been the first day I’d watched him practice. That had been purely objective observation. This was… well, significantly less objective.

“You’re staring again,” he said, his voice pitched low in that register he knew damn well made my knees weak.

“Occupational hazard,” I replied, gesturing to his general… everything. “Section 7, paragraph 3 of the team handbook: ‘Always visually assess team assets to ensure no damaged goods.'”

He snorted, leaning his elbows on the boards, bringing himself close enough that I could see the gold flecks in his green eyes. “Is that what they’re calling it these days?”

“Among other things,” I smiled, reaching out to brush a strand of dark hair from his forehead. “Jamie’s doing really well.”

Max’s expression softened. “Kid’s got natural talent. And he’s doing better in school. His mom says he hasn’t had a nightmare in weeks.”

My heart swelled. This—this right here—was the real Max Harrison. Not the brooding defenseman the media had labeled “The Grump,” but the man who remembered the reading goals of a kid and noticed when the nightmares stopped.

“I’m so proud of you,” I said softly, my hand cupping his stubbled jaw. “You know that, right?”

He turned his head slightly, pressing a kiss to my palm in a gesture that had become familiar over the months but never failed to make my pulse race. “Proud of us,” he corrected. “The team, the program… all of it.”

“Us too,” I agreed, warmth spreading through my chest. “Though I still can’t believe Griffon didn’t fire me after that extremely unplanned display at the gala.”

Max’s eyes darkened, pupils expanding as he obviously recalled the same memories I was—his public kiss, the media frenzy that followed, and the particularly enthusiastic celebration in his apartment afterward that had left marks on both of us for days.

“Best damn PR disaster of my career,” I added with a grin.

“Speaking of disasters,” he said, straightening up with a casualness that immediately triggered my suspicion sensors. Max Harrison did not do casual. “I’ve got something to show you.”

“Should I be worried?” I narrowed my eyes as he skated backward, beckoning me to follow.

“Depends on your definition of worry.” There was something in his voice—a nervousness I rarely heard—that made my heart stutter.

“I need skates for this?”

“Equipment room,” he nodded toward the tunnel. “Your figure skates are still in the storage locker from last time.”

Twenty minutes later, I glided onto the ice, wondering what on earth Max was plotting. The rink was empty save for us, the overhead lights dimmed to the setting typically used for late-night practice sessions. The Citrus Center felt cavernous without the usual crowd noise, our skates echoing in the vast space.

“Okay, Harrison,” I said, drawing up beside him at center ice. “What’s this mysterious thing you need to show me that requires dragging me onto the rink at—” I checked my watch, “—8:37 PM on a Tuesday?”

Instead of answering, Max took my hand and led me toward the home bench, where I now noticed something propped against the boards, covered by what appeared to be a Sunblades practice jersey.

“Remember our first real conversation?” he asked, his voice oddly tight. “Right here, on this ice?”

I smiled at the memory. “You were laying waste to innocent practice cones, and I called you allergic to cameras.”

“‘Challenge accepted,’ you said.” He actually smiled then, rare and genuine.

“Little did I know,” I laughed softly, squeezing his hand.

He took a deep breath, like he was preparing for a particularly brutal power play. “This place… it’s where everything changed. Where you first called me on my crap. Where I first played for you during that storm.”

My throat tightened with unexpected emotion, the memory of that night—Max illuminated only by emergency lights, his fingers finding melodies he’d buried for years—still vivid.

“A lot of firsts here,” I managed, struggling to understand where this was going.

Max nodded, then carefully removed the jersey from whatever it was covering. My breath caught as I recognized the gleaming wooden body of a guitar—but not just any guitar. This one was hand-crafted, the polished wood catching the dim arena lights, its surface inlaid with delicate patterns that, upon closer inspection, resembled sheet music.

“Max…” I breathed, unable to form a coherent thought.

“I had it made,” he said, lifting it carefully as if handling something infinitely precious. “The inlay… it’s our song. ‘Walls Down.’ The one from the gala.”

Tears pricked at my eyes as my fingers traced the pattern, recognizing the notes that had changed everything between us. But as I followed the melody line across the guitar’s body, I noticed something etched into the wood itself—words flowing through the music:

You gave me back the music in my life. Now I’m asking you to be the music in my heart, forever.

My head snapped up, eyes wide as I found Max watching me with an intensity that stole my breath. Slowly, deliberately, he knelt on the ice, the guitar cradled in one hand while the other reached for mine.

Holy hockey gods. Was this actually happening?

“Lily Thompson,” his voice was rough with emotion, those green eyes locked on mine. “You bulldozed your way past every defense I ever built. You actually fucking saw me when I didn’t want to be seen. And you stayed, even when I gave you every damn reason to walk away.”

Tears were falling freely now, and I made no attempt to stop them. “Max…”

“I’m shit with words,” he continued, the vulnerability in his expression making my heart ache. “Never have been. But I’m good at one fucking thing—knowing exactly what I want on the ice. And what I want is you. Just you. Forever.”

From his pocket, he produced a small black box, opening it to reveal a ring that caught the light—a single emerald surrounded by diamonds that matched the green of his eyes perfectly.

“Will you marry me, Lily? Make an honest man out of The Grump?”

A laugh bubbled up through my tears. “Yes,” I managed, barely above a whisper. Then louder, “Yes, Max. Of course yes!”

His hands were steady as he slipped the ring onto my finger, but I could feel the subtle tremor running through him as he rose to his feet, setting the guitar carefully aside before pulling me against him.

When his lips found mine, it was with the same devastating thoroughness I’d come to expect from Max Harrison—the man held nothing back, not anymore. His hands tangled in my hair, angling my head to deepen the kiss as my arms wrapped around his neck, pressing our bodies together from chest to knees.

“I love you,” I whispered against his mouth, feeling the curve of his smile.

“Show me,” he growled, the familiar heat in his voice sending shivers racing down my spine.

“Here?” I pulled back slightly, glancing around the empty arena. “We’re on the ice, Max.”

His eyes darkened, pupils swallowing the green as his hand slid possessively down my spine to cup my ass. “Wouldn’t be the first time we’ve fucked on this rink. Or did you forget that night after the playoff clincher?”

Heat flooded my cheeks at the memory. We’d celebrated the team’s playoff berth with perhaps the least appropriate use of a hockey rink in NHL history. Certain parts of my anatomy had been numb for hours afterward.

“That was different,” I protested weakly, even as my body betrayed me, pressing closer to his. “The team had left… the building was locked…”

“Building’s locked now,” he pointed out, his mouth trailing hot kisses down my neck in a way he knew damn well demolished my resistance. “Security’s gone. Just us and the ice. And my newly-engaged fiancée looking fucking edible in my practice jersey.”

With anyone else, the word ‘fiancée’ would have sounded strange, foreign. But from Max’s lips, it fell like the most natural thing in the world, settling into my bones with absolute rightness.

“Security cameras,” I reminded him, though my hands were already sliding beneath his practice jersey, finding the warm skin beneath.

“Disabled.” His voice was muffled against my throat. “I told the team what I was planning. They’ve been helping me set this up all fucking day. No cameras, no interruptions.”

“You planned this,” I accused, gasping as his teeth grazed the sensitive spot below my ear.

“I plan everything,” he reminded me, his hand sliding beneath my jersey to find bare skin. “Except you. Never planned you.”

I surrendered then, laughing against his mouth as he backed me toward the boards, his body solid and warm despite the chill of the rink. “The ice is cold,” I murmured between kisses.

“I’ll keep you warm,” he promised, his voice a deep rumble against my skin.

And God, did he deliver on that promise. “Wait,” I gasped, as his hands moved lower. “Skates. Sharp blades. Terrible idea.”

Max growled against my neck but paused. “Bench. Now.”

That gruff, two-word command in that voice? Still ridiculously hot. With surprising efficiency, he managed to get my leggings down and off without me completely freezing, his hands hot against my thighs as he lifted me against the boards.

“Max—” I gasped as his fingers found me, already embarrassingly wet for him.

“Fuck, sunshine,” he growled, green eyes blazing as two thick fingers circled my entrance. “Already soaked for me. Is that from the proposal or the idea of me fucking you right here on center ice?”

“Both,” I admitted, my hips bucking against his hand as he pushed those fingers inside me, curling them at precisely the right angle. “Oh god, Max—”

“That’s it,” he encouraged, his thumb finding my clit as his fingers worked a steady rhythm that had my thighs trembling in minutes. “Let me feel you come all over my hand before I fuck you.”

His crude words, delivered in that raspy growl, pushed me closer to the edge. Max had discovered early in our relationship that I responded embarrassingly well to his particular brand of dirty talk.

“Please,” I whimpered, my nails digging into his shoulders as he worked me higher, his mouth hot on my neck, my collarbone, any skin he could reach.

“Please what, Lily?” he demanded, teeth grazing my earlobe as he added a third finger, stretching me in the best way possible. “Tell me what you need.”

“You,” I gasped, my inner walls clenching around his fingers as my climax built. “Please, Max, I need you inside me—”

He didn’t make me wait. With practiced efficiency, he freed himself from his athletic pants, the impressive length of him already hard and ready. Before I could catch my breath, he was pushing inside me in one powerful thrust that had me crying out, my back pressed against the boards as he filled me completely.

“Fuck,” he groaned, forehead dropping to rest against mine as he gave me a moment to adjust. “You feel so goddamn perfect around me. So tight, so fucking hot.”

I wrapped my legs around his waist, urging him deeper. “Move, Max. Please.”

He needed no further encouragement. His hands gripped my thighs, holding me securely as he began to thrust, each powerful movement driving me higher against the boards. The contrast of the cold surface behind me and his burning hot body pressed against my front created a sensory overload that had me spiraling toward release embarrassingly quickly.

“That’s it,” he encouraged, one hand sliding between us to circle my clit with his thumb. “Come for me, Lily. Need to feel you squeeze my cock when you come.”

His filthy words combined with the precise pressure on my clit sent me over the edge. I shattered around him, inner walls clamping down as pleasure crashed through me in waves. Max groaned, his rhythm faltering for just a moment before he continued, driving me through my orgasm and straight toward another.

“Max,” I gasped, oversensitive and desperate. “Oh god, I can’t—”

“You can,” he insisted, his thrusts becoming more forceful, more deliberate. “One more for me, sunshine. Come on my cock this time.”

He shifted his angle slightly, hitting that spot inside me that made my vision blur. Combined with his continued attention to my clit, it was devastating. When my second orgasm hit, it was even more intense than the first, pulling a strangled cry from my throat that echoed through the empty arena.

Max followed me over the edge moments later, his hips jerking as he buried himself deep and came with a harsh groan of my name. For several long moments, we stayed locked together, his forehead pressed against mine as we fought to catch our breath.

“Holy shit,” I finally managed, laughing weakly. “That’s one way to celebrate an engagement.”

He smiled against my temple, pressing a surprisingly tender kiss there. “Been wanting to do that since I bought the ring three months ago.”

“Three months?” I pulled back slightly to look at him. “You’ve been planning this for three months?”

“Wanted it to be perfect,” he admitted, carefully helping me disentangle myself as he set me back on my feet. My legs wobbled embarrassingly, prompting him to wrap a steadying arm around my waist. “You deserve perfect.”

Later, wrapped in the emergency blanket Max had apparently stashed under the bench (further evidence of his meticulous planning), we lay together on the bench, my head resting on his chest as I admired the way my ring caught the arena lights.

“The team’s going to be insufferable about this,” I murmured, already imagining Jack’s theatrical congratulations, Tyler’s puppy-like excitement, and Tiana’s knowing smirk.

“Worth it,” Max replied, his fingers trailing lazy patterns along my spine. “Besides, they’ve all got yet another fucking bet going about when I’d finally ask. Probably about how I’d do it too.”

I laughed, the sound echoing in the empty arena. “Those idiots bet on everything.”

“Remember when they bet on how long it would take me to figure out you stole my jersey?” His voice was warm with amusement, a sound I’d never tire of hearing. “Jack was convinced you’d keep it for at least a month before I noticed.”

“He underestimated your territorial nature,” I said, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “You knew it was missing within twenty-four hours.”

“Knew exactly who took it, too.” His arm tightened around me possessively. “I just liked the idea of you wearing it too much to ask for it back.”

I traced the familiar scar along his collarbone, marveling at how much had changed. The Max Harrison I’d met that first day would never have proposed on center ice, would never have played guitar in public, would certainly never have become the emotional cornerstone of a community outreach program.

“What?” he asked, catching me staring.

“Just thinking about how far we’ve come,” I said honestly. “How much things have shifted since that first day.”

His arm tightened around me. “You knocked down all my defenses,” he reminded me. “Showed me what was waiting on the other side.”

“We knocked them down together,” I corrected, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “And we’ll build something better in their place.”

Max’s smile—the real one, not the guarded version—spread slowly across his face. “Together,” he agreed, fingers tangling with mine, the emerald ring a promise between us. “Just like we do everything else.”

“Except maybe future on-ice celebrations,” I added with a grimace, certain parts of my anatomy already protesting the cold. “I vote for comfortable beds from now on.”

His laugh—a sound that had once been so rare—echoed through the Citrus Center, bouncing off the rafters and surrounding us like music. Another promise, this one unspoken but no less real: there would be many more laughs to come, many more songs, many more moments of hearts laid bare.

And in that moment, surrounded by ice that had witnessed our beginning, I knew with absolute certainty that I’d made the right choice all those months ago—to push back against The Grump, to challenge his barriers, to glimpse the man beneath.

Some things in life you have to fight for. And some people are worth every battle.

Even if they occasionally make you have sex on literal ice—my stubborn, impossible, wonderful man.

My fiancé.

Max Harrison.

No longer The Grump, but simply, perfectly mine.