Chapter 29 Sienna
TWENTY-NINE
SIENNA
For more than a year, this man chose not to make contact. He put his career and his friendships with my brothers over his promise to come for me, and now, after seeing me in a damn Bolts jersey, he’s willing to risk everything to, what? God, I don’t even know what he wants.
We’ll never be done.
His words from the other day bounce around in my head as I press myself against the wall in the owner’s suite. I ran here to hide after Gavin chewed Noah out for not focusing on the ice.
What is he thinking?
“You know you can’t see the game from back there,” Lex singsongs. She’s the only one of my sisters-in-law without kids, so she’s the only one who makes it to just about every home game these days.
I take a small step forward, though I keep my distance from the glass separating the suite from the arena. “You don’t have to stay up here with me. I’m sure Aiden loves having you down there.”
She grins. “Big dopey idiot runs into the boards if I’m too close. I sit up here unless Sara forces me to freeze out there.”
A rush of relief I didn’t expect hits me. At least I won’t be alone. “Okay, good.”
It’s strange how quiet the owner’s box is with the rest of the girls at home with their kids. Blessedly, Ezra chose to stay rink side. Listening to him mansplain the game was getting beyond old.
I’d rather learn about hockey from Addie. My nine-year-old niece probably knows as much as he does, and she’s a lot less smug about it.
“Looks like whatever was irking Harry has resolved.” Lennox angles in closer to the glass, her pink hair hiding her face. “Oh shit,” she squeals. “Yes. Ah, get it, Beauty!” She jumps to her feet along with the rest of the crowd and screams.
Without my permission, my body glides forward. Then I’m standing beside her, my focus intent on the action as Noah slaps his stick against the ice, sending the puck flying into the back of Minnesota’s net. Excitement bubbles up, and I give in to the urge to jump up and down in celebration.
Aiden and Warren smash into Noah, hugging him and jostling him. How they do it on skates I’ll never know, but with the way my body is buzzing, I can’t imagine the high they’re riding.
This is exciting. Far more exciting than I expected it to be. If I’m honest, I’m having fun.
Noah takes a lap around the rink. I can practically feel him searching for me as he glides easily, so I take a step back from the glass.
After a moment, he pauses and looks into the screen, and a heartbeat later, his face pops up on the Jumbotron.
Like this, it feels like he’s looking directly at me, those familiar blue eyes so knowing.
Focus intent on the camera, he taps his heart.
In response, mine goes into overdrive. “What’s he doing?”
Lennox brings her hands to her chest and hums. “Isn’t it sweet? It’s a message to Ollie. He does it after every goal.”
My heart both skips and settles as I study his flushed face. Shit. Why does that have to be so cute?
I should have known it was about Ollie. The sense that he was staring right at me was all in my head. Hell, he was probably scanning the arena for a camera so he could send his son a message, not to locate me and the stupid jersey he’s obsessed with revealing.
When the enlarged image of him disappears, I step up closer to Lennox again and lean against the glass, watching him skate to the bench. “Why is he going over there?”
“Line change,” Lennox explains, as if that should make sense.
She probably thinks I know the rules the way she does. I did spend hours sitting beside her while Aiden played in high school, after all. I just wasn’t paying attention.
I reach for my phone so I can scan the list of questions I saved in my Notes app. I might as well go through some of them with Lennox while it’s just the two of us.
“Oh fuck,” she mutters, startling me.
Heart in my throat, I peer down at the rink.
Noah’s stick is on the ground and his gloves are off. And before I can make sense of why, he pulls back and punches one of Minnesota’s players.
Like he didn’t see it coming, the guy’s head snaps back. His response is slow, giving Noah time to clutch the front of his jersey and hit him again.
I gasp. “Holy crap. What did that guy do?”
Neither of us takes our eyes off the chaotic scene in front of us.
“I have no idea,” Lennox murmurs, bringing her fingers to her mouth. “Noah’s never like that.”
My stomach lodges itself in my throat as players from both teams converge, every one of them throwing fists. Even Brooks, the most even-keeled of my brothers, has skated toward the melee, leaving the goalie box.
Heart racing, I scan the mass of bodies for Noah. When he’s finally pulled out of it and sent to the penalty box—or the sin bin, according to Lennox—the need to go to him flares inside me, burning bright.
I need to see that he’s all right.
When the game is over, the urge is just as strong. But rather than give in, I pack up and force myself to head home.
Noah is not mine to check on. He can’t be.