Brighton squeezes my hand and leans closer. “See that? That’s the part that makes you go wow, look at the teamwork, the strategy…” Her eyes twinkle, and I can tell she’s enjoying my flustered expression more than the actual game.
Jaxon passes to Noah and Brighton points. “Jaxon just set up a perfect shot for Noah.” Noah takes the shot, and scores. The buzzer goes off and the next thing I know we’re all on our feet, and my wine is all over my shirt, but I don’t care.
“Oh, that was beautiful,” Jaylynn says as she squeezes my arm.
The guys hug, and I try to quiet my heart, my gaze on Jaxon. His head lifts, and a grin touches his mouth as his eyes lock with mine from across the rink. I take a deep breath, and we all sit again. Jaylynn disappears for a second and comes back with napkins and another glass of wine.
“You’ll figure it out soon enough,” she tells me.
“Figure what out?” I really hope she’s not talking about me and Jaxon.
“How to jump up without spilling wine.” She gestures with a nod and I laugh when I see that Brighton and Gina hadn’t spilled a drop.
I sip my wine and concentrate on the ice when they begin a new play. Every pass, every flash of movement, is a little thrill—like I’m in on some secret the ice doesn’t know about.
Brighton laughs again. “I swear, it never gets old. You just…watch, and your stomach flips every time they make a good play. It’s hockey magic.”
I glance back at her, then down at the rink. The puck slides, sticks scraping, and Jaxon maneuvers past a defender with that damn grin. My pulse jumps.
I tighten my grip on the glass and let out a small breath. It’s just the wives and girlfriends watching a game. An important game, sure, and I’m not really a girlfriend. Yet…somewhere deep inside, I’m thinking I could get used to this—the camaraderie of the women in the box, the thrill of watching the game, and yes…the distracting pull of Jaxon on the ice and the way he constantly seems to check in with me.
Oh boy.
5
Jaxon
With three minutes left and the score tied, every muscle in my body burns, but the rush of adrenaline keeps me sharp. This is it. Game seven of the semi-finals. The winner goes to the cup finals. The arena is electric, the crowd a blur of noise and color, and I can feel every vibration of their excitement in my chest.
I glance behind me as the puck gets dumped into the corner. Noah’s already there, grinding it out against the boards. He wins the battle, flicks the puck to me, and instinct takes over. One smooth pass to Jesse, who tips it—just the faintest touch—and the red-light flashes.
Goal.
The buzzer wails, and the whole arena erupts. Fans are on their feet, pounding the glass, screaming like it’s Game 7 of the Cup finals. The guys swarm Jesse, helmets clashing, gloves flying, everyone shouting over each other. My face aches from grinning, my heart’s a wild drum in my chest.
Then, out of the chaos, I glance up to the box.
Rowyn’s there.
She’s jumping, cheering, arms thrown around Jaylynn, her hair a wild halo under the lights—and it does something stupid to me. Something I can’t shove down.
I’ve never had a girlfriend in the box before. Never had someone up there…for me.
Sure, Rowyn and I are faking it. But for one split second, it doesn’t feel fake. It feels right. Like maybe I want what my teammates have—what my parents have. That steady kind of love that doesn’t just cheer you on from the stands, but sticks around after the buzzer, too.
My folks have always been solid that way. Real role models. Which is probably why I tried to do the “right thing” with Ember when she said she was pregnant.
I shove the thought aside. Not tonight. Tonight, we’re conference champions, and I want to celebrate with the guys. And maybe a little bit with Rowyn.
Fuck.
Back in the locker room, the mood is electric as the coach comes to talk to us. Once he’s done, music begins pumping, towels flying, someone spraying champagne like we just won the Cup. I drop onto the bench beside Brady and start undressing, the victory buzz still humming in my veins.
“You hitting up Kilting Around?” he asks, grinning.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I say.
He shoots me a look. “So… who’s the girl?”