“They’re professionals.” Melanie lifts her chin, watching them with clinical appreciation. “Game faces on. World off. It’s what they’re trained for.”
“You’ve never watched playoffs?” Brighton asks, amused.
“I have,” I say, briefly glancing around the box. “Just… not from this close.”
And then I see him.
Jaxon.
My heart misfires, an uneven, reckless stutter. He skates toward the bench, glove raised, and—God help me—he looks up. Right at me. That grin, that stupid, warm, devastating grin, cuts straight through the noise and the nerves and the crowd, lighting me up from the inside.
He shouldn’t be looking. He should be focused. Dialed in. Locked down.
But he looked. At me.
And I’m ridiculously, pathetically happy about it.
I watch the other players do the same thing—seeking out the women they love like a quiet ritual before battle. Like it’s the last deep breath they need before giving everything they have on the ice.
Women they love.
If only.
But the flutter in my stomach doesn't feel like nerves anymore. It feels like hope—dangerous, impossible hope—that maybe he looks up because he needs me too.
My stomach knots. Oh my God. Is that what I really wish for?
I take a shaky breath, trying to center myself, but my legs feel like jelly beneath me. Talk about a girl craving what she can’t have. Jaxon isn’t the type looking for forever. He’s made that painfully clear, ignoring my attempts to talk about what he deserves: a wife, a family, a picket fence. In a twist I still can’t forget, he flipped it back on me, claiming it’s my dream, not his.
But maybe… just maybe… he does want it too. And maybe he’s scared. Scared of getting hurt again. Scared of letting someone in. He’d been burned, and those scars haven’t healed.
“Are you okay?” Melanie’s voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts.
I turn to her, forcing my focus outward. I plaster on a smile, but my legs threaten rebellion. Her gaze sharpens. “I’m fine,” I lie.
“You look a little pale,” she says carefully. “Maybe those flutters aren’t from nerves.”
My chest tightens. I’m about to explain I’m not pregnant, when she continues, “You might be coming down with something.”
“Maybe,” I say, grabbing onto the excuse like a life raft. “I think I should sit.”
“I’ll grab you some water.”
The women settle as the game roars on, but my attention is fractured. When Melanie returns, I take the glass, murmuring thanks as I sip. I focus on the game—no, I force myself to focus—letting the clang of sticks and the crowd’s roar drown out my racing thoughts.
By the end of the first period, scoreless, the chatter turns to Vegas, and I join in. I’ve made the decision to go. This trip—this pretense with Jaxon—it has a purpose. I need this, even if it’s tangled with all the wrong emotions.
The second period starts with the same intensity. Edmonton storms the ice, puck skating like a blur across the rink. My hands curl into fists as they slip past Ash. “Oh no,” I whisper, voice tight. A slap shot finds its mark past Brady. We groan and boo, Edmonton fans erupting around us.
Jaxon looks up, scanning the crowd, and my heart flutters like a trapped bird. I step forward, pressing my palm to the glass, feeling the cold transfer its chill to my fingers. He glances my way, frustration flickering across his face. He’s playing hard, giving everything, and luck isn’t on his side. I bite my lip, torn between cheering him on and wanting to sweep across the ice and hug him.
The period ends, score still one-nothing for Edmonton, and I make my way to the bathroom. Splashing water on my face, I pinch my cheeks to force some color. Maybe I am coming down with something. A few days off work would be…nice. I laugh, bitter and self-aware. Hoping for an illness to escape life’s responsibilities. What has become of me?
I leave the bathroom and stand at the bar. I put my order in with the bartender as Gina sidles in beside me. I turn and offer a small smile.
“Not having wine?” she asks, eyebrow arched when I ask for water.
“No,” I say, cracking the lid on the bottle the server hands me. “I think I might be getting sick.”