"You really didn't have to come with me," Emma said and it was probably the twelfth time she'd said it in the last half hour.
Mary Margaret didn't look impressed. She had, after all, promised it had been fine each of the last dozen times Emma had questioned it.
"You'd be bored by yourself," Mary Margaret argued.
"You're slacking on those counterpoints Reese's. I've got, no less than, twenty-six different things to do by puck drop."
"Isn't that soon?"
"A beacon of support," Emma laughed.
Mary Margaret rolled her eyes, glancing down at the detailed schedule Emma had given her as soon as they'd set foot in the hotel lobby that morning. It hadn't really been part of the plan – splitting games in Boston and Arthur was bordering close to complete breakdown, pulling Jefferson in the third period of the second game, but they'd bounced back in New York, back-to-back wins to set up a game-clinching situation that night.
Or, well, the team had bounced back.
Killian, it seemed, couldn't keep the puck on his stick this series.
It hadn't been particularly pretty and the tabs hadn't been kind to any of them, making sure, every day, to harp on Killian Jones' latest skid and how that was going to affect the Rangers' run and maybe Cap should score if he wanted to win a Cup and stay in New York.
The headline was a bit more concise than all of that.
Emma's mind was just a jumbled mess and they needed to stick to the schedule because she really did have twenty-six different things to do before puck drop.
She was glad Mary Margaret showed up at her front of her door the night before, a bag in her hand and promises that she was coming to Boston with Emma.
"Alright," Mary Margaret said, sitting up a bit straighter. "What do we have to do first?"
"Teacher voice," Emma mumbled. It was a deflection, but it kind of felt like her heart had sped up in her chest and Mary Margaret had given up spring break for this.
"Well, to be fair, you look about as overwhelmed as some of my kids. Come on, you've got a ton of stuff on here. What do we have to do first?"
Emma twisted the ends of her hair, eyes falling on the laces she still had tied around her wrist. She'd never actually taken them off. "We need to talk to the music people and make sure they set up where the hotel said we could set up and there's merch somewhere in this hotel that we're supposed to auction off for GD."
"How did you get merch here?" Mary Margaret asked.
"Kristoff brought it."
"Is it already signed?"
Emma shook her head. "We're deviating from the norm today. Just game-worn. The guys have kind of had some other things going on. Arthur would probably kill me if I even suggested having them sign anything for me."
"Sounds like they're almost as busy as you."
"That sounded decidedly overprotective, Mom."
Mary Margaret waved her hand through the air, nose scrunched slightly as she shook her head. "I'm proud of you. Obviously."
"Obviously," Emma repeated, but her heartbeat hadn't quite settled yet.
"He's totally going to score tonight," Mary Margaret added softly. Emma didn't expect that.
"That was a quick transition."
"David might not be here, but he's had a lot of thoughts on the status of whatever skid The Post seems to think Killian is riding."
Two weeks. Since Game Two of the first series. He'd scored on a rebound in Montreal and she'd texted him about it and he'd actually called her in response. That was the last time. And six games wasn't really a lot, not in the grand scheme of a season, but it was an eternity for the face of a franchise in a do-or-die playoff run.
The headline in The Post that morning had been awful, hardly even clever and they'd used his name as part of the pun twice that week. Kill'ian the Vibe.
It would have been funny if she wasn't so worried. That was probably why Mary Margaret insisted she come to Boston.
"It'll be fine," Emma mumbled, slumping down in her chair.
Mary Margaret smiled sympathetically, hand falling on Emma's shoulder. "Of course it will," she promised as if that would ensure that it would. "David's pretty certain."
"Pretty certain?"
"He said it was, and I'm quoting here, inevitable. Something about Boston's terrible defense and how close that post was last game."
"Close, but not a goal," Emma argued.
Mary Margaret's lips quirked. "Ah, that sounds like Killian."
"It was."
"Did you give him that food? Or just steal all the mac and cheese for yourself?"
"Who do you think I am, Reese's?" Emma scoffed, crossing her arms lightly. "Of course I gave him the food. He walked out of your apartment with the food. And you don't need to mother both of us. We both know how to make food."
Mary Margaret made a noise under her breath and Emma lowered her eyebrows. "What?" she asked.
"It's not because I don't think you can't make your own food. I'm well aware you can make your own food."
"Then why are you forcing mac and cheese at me and Killian every time we see you?"
"That's why," Mary Margaret said, pointing at Emma for extra emphasis.
"If I'm supposed to just get it, I'm not."
She rolled her eyes and Emma wasn't certain she realized her fingers had made their way to engagement ring out of instinct. "You know what he asked me the other day?"
"Who?"
"Emma!"
"Reese's we honestly don't have time for this," Emma said. There was a hotel employee lurking nearby – a clipboard in hand and a slightly frustrated look on their face and they were, collectively, five minutes behind schedule now.
"You want to know what he asked me or not? And if you say who again, I'm going to rip up your schedule right in the middle of this hotel lobby."
Emma pressed her lips together – so she didn't actually laugh at the serious look on Mary Margaret's face – and she nodded once. "He asked what he was supposed to wear to the wedding."
"Your wedding?"
"I'm going to rip your schedule apart."
"Ah, but you're not considering the fact that I've got the whole thing memorized. That paper copy was just to make sure you knew what was going on."
Mary Margaret groaned, rolling her head back onto the top of the chair and the hotel employee was actually sighing at regular intervals at this point. Emma was almost waiting for the lasers to start shooting out of his eyes.
"How come you didn't tell him what to wear?" Mary Margaret asked.
"Honestly?" She nodded and Emma shifted uncomfortably in her seat. This wasn't the kind of conversation they should be having in the middle of a hotel lobby, now, seven minutes behind schedule. "I kind of forgot," Emma sighed and it wasn't the lie she wished it was. "It's just been one thing after another. The game and Henry and then the deadline and now it's all playoffs all the time. Why don't you think he asked me?"
"Maybe he realized you forgot too," Mary Margaret mumbled. Emma's eyes widened. "Ah, sorry, that was kind of harsh."
"Decidedly un-Reese's like."
"It's because I've got so much on my mind. Apparently Storybrooke is in revolt."
Emma hadn't expected that either. The hotel worker had moved closer to them, half a step away and she waved him off before he could announce they were, now, eight and a half minutes behind schedule. "About?"
"Exactly what you'd expect it to be. No big wedding at home, no bringing David back like some sort of suitor so the whole town can pass judgement. We didn't want any of that. We just want to get married."
"That might be the most romantic thing I've ever heard," Emma said, doing her best not to actually sigh.
Mary Margaret laughed. "Oh, please."
"I'm serious. It's...nice."
"Nice?"
"If I wasn't so stressed out about team events I'd be able to come up with a few more adjectives," Emma said, nodding in the direction of the hotel employee and his clipboard.
"Ah, I shouldn't have said anything. You've got enough going on without me pushing wedding issues onto the schedule. And, if we're going to be completely honest, this may be why I kind of forced myself on your team trip."
"It's not a team trip if we drove down here ourselves, Reese's."
"It's absolutely a team trip. Clipboard guy here just proves that."
Emma chuckled and clipboard guy had started actually tapping out some sort of impatient rhythm against the imitation wood. The glare would probably linger on his face for the rest of the day. He was probably a Bruins fan.
"He can deal," Emma muttered quickly, leaning forward to rest her hand on Mary Margaret's knee. "I'm glad you're here. Perpetually, for the rest of time. And if you need someone to yell at the general population of Storybrooke, then I'm your girl."
Mary Margaret beamed at her, eyes glossier than they should have been. "I think Ruby's taking care of that. Although she's kind of nervous about telling off my dad. She said she drew the line there. And then mentioned something about the color scheme and how she was giving up enough for me."
"It's because she spends so much time around blue."
"It's mostly my dad," Mary Margaret mumbled. "He's not too big on the castle in New York idea."
"I'll tell your dad to shut up," Emma offered immediately and there wasn't a hint of a lie in her words. She would have.
She probably would have done anything for Mary Margaret at this point.
"You don't have to do that," Mary Margaret argued, but her voice lacked a bit of the determination Emma had always associated with her.
"Reese's, you let me live on your couch for months . You still won't let me or my boyfriend try to feed ourselves. The least I can do is provide some strongly worded sentiment in your wedding corner."
"You could have stayed on that couch forever and I wouldn't have minded."
"I probably would have done permanent damage to my neck."
Mary Margaret hummed in agreement, rubbing quickly at her cheeks so Emma wouldn't notice the tears she'd already seen. "You said boyfriend," she mumbled.
"It's a little high school, I know…" Emma started quickly, but Mary Margaret shook her head.
"No, no, I don't care about that. That's just the first time I've ever heard you use that word. Ever."
"Ever?" Emma repeated skeptically and that couldn't be right. She'd had boyfriends before. She'd talked to Mary Margaret about them before. She'd...no.
She'd never used the word boyfriend out loud before.
And it would have been almost depressing if it also didn't send a wave of something down her spine, some kind of overwhelming sense of emotion and meaning and home right there in the middle of Boston.
"Ever," Mary Margaret nodded.
"Huh."
"Although maybe we can avoid a repeat of your apartment a couple of days ago. I don't think I was quite prepared for that."
"Did we scandalize you, Mom? Stop coming in without knocking."
"I did knock! You were otherwise occupied. Just be glad it was me and not David. He probably would have challenged Killian to some kind of on-ice competition."
"I'm surprised he hasn't offered him a spot in the department's rec league," Emma laughed and something in her felt like it shifted at how easily this had all become hers. She hadn't realized how long she'd been waiting for it until she got it.
"He doesn't want him distracted from postseason glory," Mary Margaret said, rolling her eyes before her face turned serious. "That's why I keep trying to give you mac and cheese, you know? Both of you."
Emma ignored whatever fluttering was happening in the pit of her stomach and tried to push her feet into the floor. "Yeah, I kind of figured. What did you tell him?"
"About what?"
"What to wear to the wedding."
"That it might be hot, so he didn't have to wear a jacket, but your dress was very blue and he might want to remember that when picking out a tie."
One of her feet slid along the floor. She'd lost control of her limbs. And the world might have been spinning – more than usual. Emma would probably never stop smiling. "Thanks, Reese's," she mumbled.
"No matter what," Mary Margaret said, grabbing Emma's hand and hooking their pinkies together. "Come on, according to your very detailed schedule, we're very, very late."
Mary Margaret was, apparently, some kind of schedule-following God-send.
She apologized profusely to the hotel worker and got him to stop tapping on his clipboard and then, for good measure, organized all of the merch and got a line of over a hundred fans into the hotel without any argument and in a single-file line.
It was a Rangerstown miracle.
"You can come on every single road trip from here on out, Reese's," Emma said later that night, tucked into the corner of the room with one eye on her event and the other on the game.
They were two minutes from puck drop and the opening notes of the anthem were bleeding across the room as the crowd actually started to shush each other.
Emma rolled her eyes at the noise and the sea of blue and white stretched in front of her, all of them focused on the screen they'd rented for the series-clincher.
God, she hoped it was the series clincher.
The Penguins swept the Capitals and it hadn't even been that close – Soyer racking up penalty minutes and more ice time than he had all season and he wasn't on a scoring skid. He'd scored twice when they played in Pittsburgh.
The anthem finished and someone shouted Let's go Rangers and the whole group cheered. It helped ease some of that worry in the pit of Emma's stomach.
Mary Margaret shifted next to her, shoulder brushing against Emma's jersey and for half a moment it was fine, good, better than – a mix of emotions and expectations and she was confident . They were going to win.
They'd get a couple of days off and then go to Pittsburgh.
It was all going according to plan.
"Where's Killian?" Mary Margaret muttered and a few of the fans nearby echoed the sentiment, questions and comments and no one tried to shush them.
They'd plugged the MSG feed into the speakers and Emma strained to hear what they were saying, hardly even registering that they'd dropped the puck and lost the faceoff already. The words seemed to sink into her slowly and it felt a bit like falling on ice, like her feet were sliding across the hotel floor again and Mary Margaret's hand moved to her shoulder.
Taken off his line for the first time in...what is it Joe? Must be six years, at least. Yeah, yeah, we've got it here. Six years. Always played with Locksley, a one-two punch for the Rangers offense since they both joined the Blueshirts. Can't imagine what Jones is thinking here...
They panned to the bench and Emma's eyes widened, the breath she didn't realize she was holding rushing out of her. Mary Margaret kept biting her lip.
He didn't look mad.
His fingers were wrapped tightly around his stick though and Emma would have bet his knuckles were white inside his gloves.
This just, well, it came out of left field didn't it, Sam? We asked Stylo about the skid with Jones and his plus-minus rating hasn't been great, but he is the captain of this team and it's an interesting move in a potential series-clincher .
There was more talk about moral and speculation about what went into the choice and Emma was going to kill Arthur. Mary Margaret was muttering something, probably something positive or supportive and all the reasons Emma should not murder the head coach of the New York Rangers in Boston.
He hadn't said anything. Arthur most not have told him anything – just switched up lines before a series-clincher and it took nearly three minutes before Killian swung his legs over the boards and got on the ice and the whole goddamn crowd of blue in front of Emma started cheering.
"I'm going to kill Arthur," Emma mumbled, not entirely certain she'd said the words out loud until Mary Margaret gasped.
"You can't do that."
"Yeah, probably not. At least not at the Garden. Oh, maybe in between the game and the hotel."
"Emma."
"He didn't know," Emma said, doing her best to keep her voice low. Mary Margaret tugged her farther into the corner. "He didn't know anything. I...I talked to him before the game. Arthur just pulled him off the line."
"Maybe he just wanted to test some new looks. Or something. I don't know how hockey works."
"Not like this," Emma hissed, glancing over her shoulder when the crowd oohed and aahed and that new guy, August whatever, had checked somebody.
August was skating first line.
Emma groaned, not even trying to mask her frustration, as she threw her head back and traced back through memories of afternoon text messages. Nothing.
He hadn't known. He'd sent her facts before the game –
The first American lighthouse was built in Boston Harbor in 17...something.
Shouldn't you be skating?
I'm about to, aren't you impressed by lighthouses?
Fishing for compliments, Jones.
You just made an ocean joke, Swan, and you didn't even realize it.
Maybe that was the point all along. Maybe you're the one who should be impressed by me.
Consistently.
– It had made her stomach flip and Mary Margaret had actually asked what was going on, ignoring hotel worker's quiet tuts of disapproval whenever Emma glanced at her phone.
Killian would have told her if he'd known. Right? Of course. Absolutely. He would have said.
Yeah.
Definitely.
She was, at least, ninety-six percent certain. Maybe ninety-six and a half.
It was the rest that worried her and Emma could almost feel the doubt creeping into the back of her mind, feet not quite as certain on hardwood floors as Mary Margaret kept staring at her.
"Arthur's just trying to spark something," Mary Margaret said and Emma lowered her eyebrows in confusion. She held up her phone, still vibrating in her hand, and Emma could see the string of text messages on the screen. "That's what David said, at least."
"Right," Emma agreed, not quite certain she did. "Right, right. Of course."
Mary Margaret narrowed her eyes, hand tightening on Emma's shoulder. The crowd cheered again and Emma hardly noticed it, mind racing and thoughts she hadn't considered in weeks, making it a bit more difficult than normal to stay upright.
August was fighting. She could hear the punches land and the crowd cheering and it took thirty seconds for the Bruins to score.
Arthur probably snapped another whiteboard.
Emma sighed, thumb looping through her laces and Mary Margaret's lips shifted. She was trying not to smile.
"If you get sentimental on me right now, Reese's," Emma warned, "I'm probably going to have some kind of complete meltdown in this hotel."
Mary Margaret laughed. "You can't do that. That's not on your schedule."
"Fair point. How is David watching this game? I thought he was out saving the entire city?"
"Paperwork," Mary Margaret corrected.
"I heard it was a mountain."
"He exaggerates. And procrastinates."
"You know, I think that was almost not a compliment, Reese's. You're, like, a whole other person in Boston."
Mary Margaret rolled her eyes, but her head snapped back towards the screen when the fans started singing the goal song. "I think we scored."
"Who?"
"Not Killian," Mary Margaret sighed and it nearly sounded like an apology. "Oh, but it's good. Phillip is good. We like Phillip."
"We do," Emma agreed.
"And a tie game!"
"Also a positive. You've effectively done your job, Reese's," Emma smiled. "A beacon of light and support in tough playoff times."
"If David were here, he'd sigh dramatically at you."
"Are you not going to?"
"Not really my thing. Even in Boston."
Emma smiled and she'd have to write the best maid of honor speech in the history of maid of honor speeches to pay Mary Margaret back for that afternoon. It would, apparently, have to wait until after her phone stopped ringing.
"Everyone I know is watching this game," Emma muttered, tugging her phone out of her back pocket to glance at the name on the screen.
Aurora.
"Isn't that Phillip's girlfriend?"
"Fiancée ."
"Does everyone on this team fall in love?"
"Reese's, the set-up was your idea. Your hands are not completely clean here."
"Whatever. You better answer before she hangs up."
"Or just calls back again," Emma mumbled, making a face as she swiped her thumb across the screen and pushed towards the relative quiet of the hotel lobby.
"Emma," Aurora said. She sounded out of breath. "Are you by yourself?"
"As by myself as I can be in the middle of an event. What's going on Aurora?"
"I have news."
Emma's heart stuttered and she was almost positive several internal organs had fallen on the floor. That hotel guy probably wouldn't be happy with that.
"Bad news?" she asked. Aurora wouldn't know about first-line stuff. Probably. Unless Phillip had told her. Jeez.
"Oh, no, no, no," Aurora said quickly. "The opposite of that actually. The best news. Or, at least, really, really good news."
"About?"
"That house."
Emma shook her head slowly, one hand held in the air and she knew Aurora couldn't actually see her confusion from New York. "I'm not sure I follow."
"The Garden of Dreams one. The one that was closing."
"Was?"
Aurora made some kind of noise in the affirmative. "Was."
"You've got to be more descriptive, Aurora."
She laughed softly and Emma heard her nod against the phone. "You did it, Emma. The charity game and the scholarships and then the auction from the charity game. They're not going to close anymore. Those kids aren't going anywhere."
Emma slumped against the chair she hadn't realized she was sitting in, mouth going slack and only dimly aware of the collective groan that came from the event room. The Bruins must have scored. It almost didn't matter.
"Aurora are you serious?" Emma asked sharply, those thoughts that had made their way back to the forefront of her refusing to believe.
"Why would I lie about that?"
"But how? I mean we raised a good amount of money, but it was hardly enough to keep a whole house like that open."
"I think you're underestimating how much work you did."
"No," Emma argued. "I know how much work I did. I'm just questioning how this is possible."
"Not so great at that whole just believing things are you?"
"I've worked in this league long enough to know things never really go the way you plan. Come on, how did this happen?"
Aurora made a noise and Mary Margaret was halfway into the lobby – they needed to get back on schedule, intermission events to follow and merch to give away and Emma was still confused.
"You might have had some help," Aurora said slowly. "But, I mean, this is really your thing and the game really did, apparently, pay for most of it..."
"Who?" Emma asked, cutting her off.
"Who what?"
"Who helped, Aurora?"
It took the entire first intermission for her to answer – or it felt that way – and Emma tried not actually groan into the phone. "I know you know, Aurora," she said.
"I have an educated guess."
Emma took a deep breath, twisting a piece of hair around her finger. "How much?"
"I don't understand."
"How much did he donate? Was it a lot? It must have been a lot, right? If they can afford to keep the house open and keep the kids there."
"You know a lot about how these houses are run," Aurora said and Emma bit her tongue to stop the immediate retort sitting on the tip.
"Yup," she said. "How much?"
"Enough."
"That's not a number."
Aurora muttered under her breath. "Somewhere in the realm of 40. Ish."
"Ish?"
"Emma, I don't have an exact number," Aurora snapped. "I thought you'd be happier about this. This is a ridiculously good thing you've done."
She was right. Of course she was right.
And Emma was happy. The kids could stay and the house would stay open and Henry would still get adopted – all because of a whim and a pick and her own ridiculous determination that one kid didn't get overlooked on his GD day.
And Killian had shown up then too.
She wasn't mad. She was happy. She was, decidedly, overwhelmed.
God, she hoped they clinched.
"It is a good thing," Emma said. Mary Margaret was standing a few feet away, eyebrows raised and she kept nodding towards the room and the increasingly restless and unentertained fans a few feet away. "Listen, Aurora, I've got to go. But, uh, thank you. For letting me know. Can I tell Henry? He'll be psyched for the other kids."
"That's why I figured you'd want to know."
"Thank you."
Aurora's voice wasn't quite as sharp when she answered. "You've done a good thing here, Emma. Really."
"Everything ok?" Mary Margaret asked.
"Yeah," Emma answered, the ease of it surprising her. "Better, actually. They're not going to close Henry's house."
"What? For real?"
"That's what I said."
"How?"
Emma tugged her hair again and Mary Margaret's eyes narrowed knowingly. "We raised enough money. You know with the charity game and the auction after and apparently a few extra donations."
"Donations," Mary Margaret repeated.
"A few. I guess."
"That's incredible, Emma."
She wasn't talking about the donations. Emma hummed noncommittally, glancing over Mary Margaret's shoulder and maybe they should buy hotel worker guy some coffee or something. He looked very stressed out.
"We should probably get back in there," Emma said, pushing out of the chair. "We've got merch to give away."
"Sure."
They did give away mech and there was more cheering and yelling and whatever mess of thoughts had been taking up residence in the back corner of Emma's brain had all but disappeared when the third period ended and they'd won.
They'd won.
The crowd started chanting again and even Mary Margaret joined in and Emma smiled when she grabbed her phone again.
The Boston Bruins are the oldest American NHL team in the league. You probably knew that. I can't think of a fact. God, that's lame. You had lighthouses and I can't think of anything. I love you.
She hit send before she could rethink it or retype it and, well, it was all true.
The fans filed out and Emma hadn't really expected a response – there was post-game and probably more post-game after that and they could film their fan videos here, had come up with some sort of separate clinching schedule with Ruby hours before.
She kept smiling and they'd clinched and it was all going according to a plan she'd only allowed herself to start to hope for, so, naturally, that particular bubble had to get popped.
"Oh my God, you're her," someone said, almost skidding to a stop as they moved out of the room. They reached forward and Emma took a step back instinctively. Mary Margaret moved again and if she wasn't so confused, Emma would have probably appreciated it.
"What?" she asked, ignoring the noise her phone was making.
"You're the girl. The one from SI. "
"SI ?" Emma repeated. "Like Sports Illustrated ?"
"Well, whatever their fan thing is. Extra...something, whatever. And Reddit. They've been talking about you all game. It's definitely you, you've got the same hair. Is it true, are you wearing laces?"
"What?"
The guy's eyes darted down – he was wearing a Booth jersey – and he scoffed when he saw the laces wrapped around her wrist. "Oh man, you are. You know the internet hates you."
"What?"
He laughed, shrugging slightly like that was an answer and Emma's mouth was hanging open. Her phone was still vibrating. "Yup," the guy continued, popping the word on his lips. "I think the theme of the thread was distraction. Cap's never played without Locksley. They've been on the same line forever."
She had an argument. She had a string of entirely inappropriate words and phrases and the anger flushed through her so quickly her whole body nearly started shaking with the force of it. That would have matched up with her phone.
"Alright," Mary Margaret snapped. "Enough. Get out of here. Emma, answer your phone."
Emma nodded slowly, anger mixed with something that felt a bit too familiar. She tried to push it away. It didn't really work.
David was texting her – a whole string of messages in a row that got more and more desperate the longer she didn't respond.
Clinched!
You need to call me. I'm going cross-eyed with paperwork.
Why'd Arthur pull him? And third line? That seems kind of weird, right?
Emma. Seriously. I know you have your phone.
Is this because of Mary Margaret? Trying to force me to work? It totally is isn't it?
Hey, so, uh, I don't know how much time you're spending on subReddits for this team, but maybe don't read the game thread from tonight.
I mean it, Emma. Don't read it .
She wasn't sure she'd ever been on Reddit before, had never found any need to search the dark corners of the internet for fan's thoughts on her team. Huh, that was new.
Her phone buzzed again.
You're totally doing it, aren't you?
She was. It didn't take long to find – one well-worded Google search and there she was, Emma Swan, villain of the New York Rangers.
It was all there, everything that guy had promised, laid out in front of her on one tiny phone screen. She read the word distraction no less than six times in the first post.
They knew everything or, at least, thought they knew everything, a breakdown of her arrival in New York and where she'd come from and a few guesses as to when Killian Jones, captain of the New York Rangers, had given her laces like that was some kind of promiseand reason to hate her completely.
Emma was still standing, albeit leaning up against the wall and she probably would have told herself that was cheating if she'd been able to actually form any words.
"Emma," Mary Margaret said again, hand stretching towards her slowly like she was kind of frightened animal or a particularly emotional fourth grader.
"It's fine," Emma said quickly.
Emma, I am going to drive to Boston in two seconds if you don't answer me.
She sighed softly, but there was a smile tugging on the of her lips and she couldn't quite ignore the feeling lingering in the back of her mind – certainty. Emma might need the wall a bit still, but she wasn't running.
She didn't want to.
Stand down, Detective. I'm fine.
You totally looked didn't, you?
I don't know why you're asking questions you don't want the answer to.
You want me to beat them up?
Who? The internet?
The internet. Arthur for that piece of garbage move. Killian, if you want.
Emma laughed and she took a step away from the wall. Mary Margaret still looked concerned.
While I appreciate the offer to defend my honor, I don't think you can punch the entire internet. And this isn't Killian's fault .
It's not your fault either.
I know that too.
She could practically see David nodding – lower lip probably sticking out and eyebrows lifted in surprise.
Good. Is Mary Margaret still with you?
All afternoon.
She wanted to help.
She did. So did you. Thanks, Dad.
No matter what, kid.
Call Reese's. She's been worried you're going to make yourself go blind with all that paperwork.
Mary Margaret's phone rang almost immediately and Emma was somewhere close to cackling at how quickly David followed instructions.
She was some kind of whirlwind of emotions as soon as Mary Margaret said hey, babe on the other side of the room, eyes falling on her laces and how much she absolutely, positively, for certain did not feel inclined to run.
It was...exciting and a bit terrifying and they'd clinched another series.
"Reese's," Emma hissed, tapping impatiently on her shoulder. "Reese's I'm leaving."
Mary Margaret pushed her hand away, switching her phone to the other ear. "What? We're staying here."
"Yeah, yeah, I'll be back. I don't know. I don't know when I'll be back."
"Where are you going?"
"Down the block," Emma said and the words were barely out of her mouth before she was out of the room and Mary Margaret was mumbling answers to David into the phone.
She wasn't lying – it was actually down the block and Emma might have actually sprinted down the sidewalk. There wasn't a plan, no schedule to stick to, nothing more than just some kind of desperate need to run towards something instead of away from it.
She stopped in front of the media entrance to the Garden and it was already late enough that the guard was long gone. She tugged on the door – locked. Everything was probably locked. There probably wasn't anyone there. It was probably just building ops and there was probably a Celtics game the next day.
Emma groaned, flipping her hair back over her shoulders. That's what she got for doing things without a schedule.
"Swan?"
In the grand scheme of whatever mess of emotions Emma was wading through that night, she'd been the least prepared for that one. It felt like...everything, all at once and then something that might have been warm and it didn't quite make sense.
She was also, apparently, an internet villain though, so, nothing made much sense in Boston.
"Hey," Emma said, turning back around to find Killian in a league-mandated suit and a bag of equipment slung over his shoulder. "Shouldn't somebody be carrying that for you?"
"What are you doing here, Swan? Didn't you have in-game?"
"Yeah, during the game. That didn't answer my question."
"Yes."
Emma blinked once. "Wait, yes, to what?"
"Having somebody carry this for me," Killian explained, nudging his shoulder up to prove his point. "It's been a shitty series though. Figured I could manage to carry my own stuff. Take a walk. Or something. I didn't really have a plan."
"Me either."
Killian narrowed his eyes and his hair hadn't dried completely yet. "We're doing this half-sentence thing, Swan."
"Yeah, that's true."
"And you never answered my question either."
"I don't remember it."
"Really know how to make a guy feel important," he mumbled, but his eyes brightened just a bit when he glanced up at her, all blue and meaningful and Emma bit her lip when his fingers brushed across her wrist.
"The internet thinks I'm the worst person in the world."
"I'm sorry, what?"
"The internet. Or Reddit. I don't know. I only read that one thing."
"Why were you reading any of it?"
"Why do you keep reading the tab stories?" Emma countered. "You keep leaving newspapers in my apartment. Ruby said I should consider using them as wallpaper."
"When was Ruby in your apartment?"
"Yesterday before Reese's got there."
"Wait, Mary Margaret is here? Is David here too?"
"They don't travel in a pair."
Killian scoffed and his fingers had wrapped all the way around her wrist, thumb brushing across her laces. Emma didn't think he realized he was doing it. "Yes, they do," he said, leaning forward to kiss the top of her hair.
She might have melted. Or at least dissolved into some sort of human-emotional hybrid who had apparently grown enough in the last few months that she was not immediately terrified to be feeling every emotion in the world.
"Well, David's not here. He had a ton of paperwork and Reese's is on April break and she wanted to come and she's having some sort of emotional breakdown about her wedding. This is a distraction she won't admit to."
"One that you've picked up on though."
"I've known Reese's for a decade," Emma shrugged.
Killian hummed, lips pressed together thoughtfully and Emma wished he'd kiss her again. Maybe she should just start kissing him. "You're avoiding my question, you know," he said and his voice felt like it lingered in every inch of her.
It was unnaturally quiet in front of the TD Garden media entrance. That was probably a sign. This was important – with a capital I.
"Well, you keep changing the subject," Emma muttered. "This has been one heck of a conversation."
"I aim to give off some kind of lasting impression."
Emma rolled her eyes and he did something absolutely absurd and completely unfair with eyebrows as he moved his hand away from her wrist and onto her waist.
"I thought you wanted to talk," Emma said, dragging her heels on the sidewalk when he started to tug her closer to him. "Jeez, relax your feats of strength, Cap. There's no one to impress here. Just me."
Killian tilted his head and something flashed in his gaze that Emma didn't entirely understand – something much bigger than this conversation should have held. She probably should have expected it.
"And what would you say, Swan," he whispered, squeezing his hand meaningfully on her jersey. His jersey. She only ever wore his jersey. "If I told you that the only person I am interested in impressing is you?"
Definitely melted. Here lies Emma Swan, former community relations, fan experiences and events manager for the New York Rangers. Melted into some kind of puddle of emotions as soon as Killian Jones, captain of the New York Rangers, stared at her like she was the center of the goddamn universe.
His smile stuttered slightly, all nerves and caution and he probably thought he was pushing again. Emma needed to get better at talking.
She pulled her hands up, palms flat on the front of his jacket and tried not to blink too much when she started talking again.
"Then," she said slowly, doing her best not to stutter on those first few letters. "I would tell you that I am consistently impressed. No matter what."
"Even for a third-liner?"
"That's not going to last."
"Ah, you don't know that, love. Arthur was very serious about it. Said I needed a wake-up call."
"That's idiotic," Emma said, half shouting the words and Killian's smile widened slightly. "It is! As if you're not worried enough already. He's just trying to cover his own ass if this doesn't…"
She cut herself off, but she'd said enough. She couldn't talk before and, now, she'd talked too much. "If this doesn't work," Killian finished.
"There's no reason to think it won't. You guys beat the Penguins plenty of times this season."
"And lost."
"You can't do that," Emma reasoned. "If you do, you'll go insane."
"I feel like I'm halfway there already. You know what my plus-minus rating was this series, Swan?"
"That's an antiquated statistic. None of those goals were explicitly your fault."
"Pick a different stat then," Killian argued and Emma knew he'd thought about every single one of them far more than he should have. "Neutral zone turnovers."
"You're pulling at straws, Cap."
"No I'm not. I've been playing like shit. The whole team knows it. The entire New York City media world knows it. You probably know it too."
"No," Emma said, knocking her knuckles on his shirt like that would, somehow, get her point across. "Listen to me. It's just a skid. It happens. You told me that in LA. That it had happened before and it would happen again. No one cares if you're winning and you guys are winning. The only reason Arthur did this was to save his own ass and it was selfish and stupid and the fans nearly rioted when you didn't come out with Locksley and Phillip."
Emma's shoulders heaved slightly and she hadn't really taken a breath during her mini-speech. The ends of Killian's mouth quirked and he squeezed her hip again. "That was good, Swan," he said. "I think you're taking over from Mary Margaret."
"Shut up," she muttered. "I'm being supportive."
"And I appreciate it, love. I got your text."
"Yeah?"
"I love you, too."
There were those emotions again, lighting metaphorical fires in the pit of her stomach and sending chills down her spine and a whole slew of cliché nonsense Emma was certain didn't exist before she got to New York.
And she'd never been more certain of anything in her entire life.
"He really didn't tell you until today?" Emma asked. "When?"
Killian shook his head slowly. "No. Tell me about the internet."
"You didn't answer my other question."
"It's not important. Why were you trying to break into the Garden?"
"I wasn't trying to break in. I figured there'd still be people here. Are you really done with all your post stuff already?"
"Yes, answer the question Swan."
She grumbled, sticking the toe of her shoe into the sidewalk. It kind of hurt. There was a lesson there. "The in-game thread wasn't happy about your move and they seem to be under some sort of impression it's my fault."
"How do you even know who they are?"
"I mean we made Page Six that one time. And the guy said he recognized me from Sports Illustrated, although I feel like Ruby would have mentioned that, so who knows what the hell he was talking about."
"You've lost me again."
"There was a guy. At my thing. He said he recognized me and that the internet thinks I'm some kind of distraction and they're all mad about my laces."
Killian's who face shifted, anger settling into every corner and Emma kept her hand trained on the front of his jacket. "They know about your laces?"
"We are absolutely horrible at under the radar."
That seemed to help. Killian's shoulders weren't quite as straight, the tension easing out of his jaw slightly and there was almostsomething that resembled a smile. "You're not a distraction. At least not one the internet can blame for how shitty I've been playing."
"We have been over that. You're not. There are other factors and..."
He kissed her before she started repeating herself again.
It wasn't the kind of kiss a person should have after only recently trying to break into TD Garden. He'd dropped his bag at some point, the sound echoing in Emma's ears for half a second before the only thing she could hear was her vaguely desperate attempts to keep breathing.
That jacket might have been the best thing he'd ever worn – collar serving as leverage and Emma was on her toes with Killian's hands anchored on the small of her back and she wasn't sure which one of them groaned when they moved, hips hitting hips and she had to grip the back of his neck so she didn't fall over.
His hand traced up the line of her spine and there was probably something ironic about his fingers ghosting over his own name on her back, but Emma was far too focused on whatever he was doing with his tongue to be worried about deeper meanings.
"You're very good at that," she mumbled and he laughed softly against her lips.
"A glowing endorsement."
She rolled her eyes, but her pulse kept pounding in her ears, a metronome that she felt like she could plan an entire life to. Oh.
Emma blinked once and everything she was thinking was probably written on her face, Killian's head tilting slightly when she tried to take a deep breath.
It was a strange realization to come to in the middle of the sidewalk in the middle of Boston, but Emma supposed nothing had gone quite the way she thought it would when it came to this and them and Killian Jones.
"You're not a distraction," Killian repeated. "I am...this is…"
"What?"
"I'm here for you," he said quickly. "And I want to be. Indefinitely. You aren't a distraction, Swan. You're a reason. For all of it."
She squeezed her eyes closed, trying to force his words into the deep recesses of her brain, that dark, vaguely frustrated place where promises of never and no and almost lingered. And she wasn't sure how she knew it worked, just that it had, an answer for every single question and every single what if she could come up with.
"When did you do it?" Emma asked and Killian jerked back slightly at the sudden change in her voice.
"Do what?"
"Save the house."
His whole body sagged, tongue pressed into the side of his cheek. "How'd you find out?"
"Aurora told me. Earlier."
"So it went through, then? We weren't sure."
Emma nodded. "Yeah, called during the first period. Wait, we?"
The ends of his ears went red and he ran his hand through his hair, tugging on the back for half a moment before he looked back at her. "Well the three of us. Locksley and Scarlet and me. That was quick. I didn't think it'd happen until after the conference, actually."
"Look who's all confident now," Emma laughed.
"Well, we did win, Swan."
"You're still dodging questions."
"Just the one."
"Killian."
He nodded, eyebrows lifted as he brushed his thumb across her jaw and that metronome in Emma's ears picked up pace. "It was a joke," he stared. "Or at least it was supposed to be. Locksley and Scarlet talking about how they were going to buy you some sort of gift for changing everything and making me want to stay in New York and less of a cynical ass.
But, uh, we talked about it a little bit more and we talked about the ever-expanding Mills-Locksley family and, well, it made sense. You know the game raised a ton of money."
"Yeah I did," Emma said. "Not nearly enough to save a foster home though."
"So you had some help." He took a step back and Emma tried not to sigh too loudly when his hand moved off her jersey. "It wasn't much, really, when you split it three ways."
"They really did that?"
"Enthusiastically."
"And it was your idea?"
"I guess," Killian shrugged. "It just made sense."
Emma looped her fingers through his belt, appreciating the almost-stunned expression on his face and realizing exactly what you wanted out of everything in the middle of the sidewalk was fun. She was having fun.
"Thank you," Emma said. There should have been more, more words or more sentiment and she'd decided in some kind of end-all way, but she was still God awful at talking.
"That's not anything to thank me for, love," Killian whispered, voice barely audible over the traffic and the collective sounds of downtown Boston. "I was reliably informed we're some sort of team."
She needed to add that to whatever list she was keeping of this moment. That part should be at the top of the list. "A good one, maybe," Emma added.
"Series-clinching."
"A do-gooder tandem, saving New York City."
"Should we collectively tell the internet to shut up?" Killian asked and his hand was back and there was a smirk and that was justcheating.
"No," she laughed. "I'll survive. I'm not...it actually didn't bother me. Much."
"Ah, well, I'll take much when I can get it."
Emma ignored that. "Were you going to walk back to the hotel?"
"It's, literally, down the block, Swan. You walked here from the hotel."
"I wasn't carrying an entire team's equipment."
"Go ahead and talk about how strong I am, I can wait."
"Jeez," Emma sighed and the smirk was on a completely different level now. It wasn't fair. "Alright, Jones, come on."
"You know Boston has one of the highest walking-populations in the entire country. Probably only second to New York."
"That's a better fact than the lighthouse."
"No more lighthouse facts," Killian laughed, arm finding its way around their shoulders when they turned back down the sidewalk. "Noted."
She didn't check for any other stories again.