Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Parker
I descended the concrete steps of the arena to my seat, my mind in a whirl. The chaotic sights of the arena, the sounds of excited conversation, and the savory scents of popcorn, nachos, and hot dogs overloaded my senses, and I didn’t know how to take it all in. I was a virgin at attending hockey games, and this one was a doozy. The Blazers had beaten St. Louis in their previous contest on Sunday. If the Blazers won this game, they’d advance to the Stanley Cup finals. The exhilarating atmosphere filled my chest with a wild drumbeat.
The stark white ice glistened under the bright lights, marred by the cuts left by sharp skate blades slicing into the surface. The teams performed their warm-up drills. The crack of sticks smacking pucks echoed around the arena and clacked above the pump-up rock music blaring from huge speakers in the rafters. The sound vibrated through my bones.
A sea of fans in red Blazers jerseys—and a few blue St. Louis jerseys—filled the seats. Their voices blended into the thrilling cacophony, a rising wave of sound. It all combined into a living, breathing being of collective excitement. The palpable tension and hope hung in the air and pushed away the cold bite of the arena. It had me grinning and put a bounce in my step. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt this alive, this connected to something larger than myself.
I checked the row and seat numbers on my ticket, but my destination became obvious. The players’ wives and girlfriends—and an older gentleman—sat in two rows, their animated chatter and easy camaraderie setting them apart from the rest of the crowd. A flutter of nerves hit my stomach as I made my way to my assigned seat beside Whitney, hoping I’d blend in.
Hoping I belonged.
Whitney’s face lit up at the sight of me. “Parker! I didn’t know you were coming!” Her smile was warm, genuine, and I couldn’t help but return it, my nerves easing. Her gaze traveled down to my jersey and back to my eyes, a mischievous twinkle in her expression. “And you’re wearing Bowen’s jersey and sitting in his comp seat. Is there a romance you want to tell me about?” She winked, her tone teasing, but there was a knowing look in her eyes that heated my cheeks.
Bowen had had the signed jersey delivered to Scrimmage’s for me, and the gesture made my chest swell. I was proud to wear it, but it invited questions—questions I wasn’t sure how to answer. “We’re…getting to know each other,” I said, the words inadequate to describe the tangle of emotions and growing connection between us.
Whitney hummed and tapped her lips with a finger. “A friends-to-lovers trope. And knowing you and Bowen, grumpy versus sunshine.” She grinned. “I like it. Makes a good story.”
I shook my head, amused by her playful analysis, but a part of me couldn’t help but wonder if she was right. Could that really be our story? The thought sent a thrill through me. A pang of uncertainty quickly followed. How could I make that work?
Before I could dwell on it, Emily leaned down from the row above me. “Chase talked to Bowen. He told me you might be here, and that this is your first hockey game.”
A chorus of exclamations erupted from the surrounding women, their surprise genuine but warm. Most I recognized from Scrimmage’s. Derek’s girlfriend, Avery, and Luc’s girlfriend, Brynn, were there. It struck me how much they all seemed to care, not just about their men, but about each other. It was a tight-knit group.
Emily pointed down the row to McKenzie and Mia, Alec and Cade’s girlfriends, and we exchanged quick hellos with smiles and friendly nods. Seeing familiar faces made me feel more at ease despite the jitters tingling beneath my skin.
Whitney introduced me to Mr. Merriweather, Hudson’s grandfather. He grunted good-naturedly, and I smiled. He was another man who spoke Grunt, a language in which I was becoming fluent. We would get along famously.
“Glad you’re here!” Hope, sitting behind me, patted my shoulder. “You’ll have fun.”
Surrounded by welcoming women and an electric atmosphere, I was already having fun. And the game hadn’t even started. The buzz of excitement was infectious, making me giddy with anticipation. I searched the ice and found Bowen effortlessly gliding backward as if it came naturally to him. Since he’d tied on his first skates at age four, it probably did. He thwacked a puck past Hudson into the net with a casual ease that belied the skill behind it. Gramps grunted, but my chest puffed with pride for Bowen. The man who could be so serious, so intense off the ice, was completely in his element here.
Warm-up drills ended, and the teams skated off the ice, the anticipation in the arena thickening with each passing moment. Emily leaned toward me. “So, you and Bowen?”
I turned in my seat so I could see her. I shrugged, the tips of my ears burning. “Not really.” Though, the words felt like a half-truth. “We went out for pie the other night, and he asked me if I wanted a ticket to the game.”
“In this group, that’s practically a marriage proposal,” Hope chimed in. Despite her cheerfulness, I couldn’t tell if she was really joking. “Just ask Whitney.”
A choking noise came from the seat beside me, and I turned to see Whitney’s wide-eyed expression. Hope laughed, and I smiled at the playful banter.
Emily elbowed Hope and grinned. “Don’t tease Parker. She and Bowen are just getting to know each other.” She cocked her head, and I could practically see the gears spinning in her mind, smoke coming out of her ears.
I drew my brows together, curiosity piqued. “What?”
She bit her lip, as if to contain a smile. “Can you take my place at the shelter on Thursday?”
“O-kay.” I drew out the word, more curious about her demeanor than ever. “One o’clock?” I asked, already planning how I’d spend the time. Cleaning the shelter was one thing, but playing with the kittens and cats was the reward, with their soft fur and playful antics.
Emily nodded. “I was going to work with Chase. I’ll send help,” she reassured me.
The unending chores could swamp one person. “Okay. Thanks.” I had to raise my voice to be heard above the rising din.
As the bass-heavy music and cheering rose in volume, a smoking dragon’s head descended from the rafters, its fierce eyes glowing with intensity. I’d seen the head on TV, but witnessing the slow drop in person sent my stomach into somersaults. The dragon settled on the frozen surface in a swirl of fog. One by one, the players shot out of the mouth of the red-lit head, their skates carving crisp lines on the fresh surface. The sounds reached a fever pitch. Spotlights swept across the ice, illuminating the players in a dazzling display of light and color. Tingles ran down my spine—I’d never experienced anything like the energy and spectacle of the team’s entrance.
The atmosphere crackled with excitement as the starting players lined up along center ice. The crowd’s energy was a living thing and pulsed with anticipation. After a lone singer reverently sang the national anthem, the line-up took their positions. Bowen was among them. My heart raced with excitement and my stomach jangled with nerves for him.
Hope, Emily, Whitney, and Brynn cheered for their men. I yelled, “Go, Bowen, go!” and smiled ear-to-ear. Emily patted my shoulder and Whitney grinned.
The puck dropped; Beck battled for it and won the face-off.
“Way to go, baby!” Hope called.
I chuckled, wondering if the tall, broad, foul-mouthed captain enjoyed being called baby .
Would Bowen like it? I shook the errant thought from my mind and concentrated on the game.
It began with a flurry of activity; the Blazers dominated the early exchanges. With each speedy pass and clacking slapshot, the crowd roared with excitement, their cheers echoing off the rafters of the arena. Bowen skated with grace and precision, weaving through the defense with ease. He was a force to be reckoned with, a whirlwind of skill and finesse. I was amazed by each of his passes and shots on the goal, and pride rose within me.
The action was more rapid than on TV, the players streaking up and down the ice, passing the puck at speeds that were difficult to follow. “How do you keep track of the puck?” I was completely out of my depth.
“Oh.” Whitney nodded and kept her gaze on the ice. “Watch where the players are looking. That will help you follow the game.”
Mr. Merriweather grunted his agreement and tossed a few kernels of popcorn into his mouth.
Whitney explained the penalties, icing, and offside, and the different duties of the orange-banded referees and the linesmen. My head spun, but I was having the time of my life watching the game. I could only imagine my parents’ horror if they knew I was at a “common” hockey game, but that was their problem. I was thrilled.
The first period flew by in a blur of excitement, the Blazers netting two goals—including one by Chase—to take an early lead. The crowd erupted into a deafening roar, fans jumping to their feet and fists pumping the air. The girlfriends smacked high-fives, and they included me in their celebrations. Being accepted into their group—as a friend, not a server—sent a gentle warmth radiating through my belly.
During the first intermission, Emily tapped me on the shoulder. “I’m getting popcorn. Can I get you something?”
I turned and grinned. “That’s my line.”
She rolled her eyes. “Popcorn’s on me tonight.”
I drew my brows together. “You don’t have to do that…”
“Consider it my ‘welcome to the girlfriends.’”
My cheeks heated. “Oh, but I’m not?—”
She squeezed my shoulder. “Believe me, you are. You just don’t know it yet.” She winked and made her way down the row to the aisle.
Girlfriend? Warmth and panic warred within me. Was it possible to be Bowen’s girlfriend without giving myself away? While lying to him by omission?
As the second period began, I pushed the thoughts aside, determined to focus on the game. But the longing in my chest didn’t go away—it only grew as I watched Bowen on the ice, his every movement drawing me in, making me wish for things I wasn’t sure I could have. If we became serious, I’d have to come clean about my family, about who I really was. But that was a worry for another day.
When the second period began, St. Louis fought back with renewed energy. The tension in the arena was tangible as they pushed forward, desperate to catch up. My heart raced as the action unfolded, and my eyes never left Bowen as he battled tirelessly when he was on the ice.
Midway through the period, St. Louis finally found their opening, slotting the puck past Hudson to narrow the deficit. Whitney groaned, and Mr. Merriweather grunted. But Beck scored soon after with a rebound, restoring their two-goal lead. The WAGs shot to their feet, cheering, with Hope’s voice rising above the rest.
As the final period got underway, the intensity rose to a fever pitch. St. Louis threw everything they had at the Blazers, desperate to claw their way back into the game. But the Blazers refused to back down, their resolution shining through with every shift. Derek rifled a puck past their goalie on a breakaway, making the score 4-1 in the Blazers’ favor.
Avery jumped to her feet. “Woo-hoo!”
And then, with just a minute remaining on the clock, Bowen delivered the decisive blow, slamming home a blistering shot to extend the Blazers’ lead to 5-1. The arena erupted into chaos, fans screaming. Bowen’s teammates dog-piled him, and I grinned ear-to-ear, smacking each WAG’s hand with a fizz in my veins.
As the final horn sounded, the arena exploded in a deafening roar. I leaped to my feet, tears pricking my eyes as I watched Bowen and the entire team come together on the ice in a huge group hug. They’d done it. They’d won the Western Conference championship and were advancing to the Stanley Cup finals.
KISS’s “Rock and Roll All Nite” blared through the speakers, the perfect anthem for the celebration unfolding on the ice. The teams lined up for the handshake line, the St. Louis players hanging their heads, their shoulders slumped in defeat. My gaze stayed glued to Bowen, tall and broad in his hockey gear and skates, his usual serious expression replaced by an uncharacteristic, slight grin. It took my breath away—the man was always handsome, but when his lips tipped up, he was utterly swoon-worthy.
Equipment managers gathered helmets and passed out ball caps. Arena personnel rolled carpets onto the ice and placed a cloth-covered table on top. Cameras recorded every moment of the ceremony as the league’s deputy commissioner congratulated the team, held the gleaming silver trophy high, and then laid it directly on the table.
“Why didn’t he hand it to Beck?” I asked Whitney over the clapping and roar of the crowd.
The girlfriends behind me gasped, and Mia cried, “No!”
“It’s bad luck to touch the trophy!” Whitney answered, her eyes wide with horror, as if I had suggested something scandalous.
I bit back a smile. Superstitious athletes.
The celebration died down, and Emily asked, “Are you going to Scrimmage’s with us? And I mean to socialize, not to work.”
I turned to talk to her. “Bowen invited me, so yes.”
She playfully slapped my shoulder. “See? Girlfriend.” Her tone was light, but her words made my heart skip a beat.
“Leave the poor girl alone,” Hope said, grinning. “Come with us.” She stood. “We can walk there together.”
My heart tripped again at their easy acceptance of me as one of them. I wasn’t close to any of my co-workers, but these women I served had taken me under their wings and offered me friendship in a way I hadn’t expected. Maybe, just maybe, we could even become friends in the truest sense—friends who wanted me for myself and not for my money, fame, or influence.
But as much as I wanted that, I couldn’t shake the fear that if they found out who I really was, they might look at me differently. And that was a risk I wasn’t sure I was ready to take.
We strolled down the bustling street toward Scrimmage’s, the night alive with the sounds and energy of a city celebrating victory. A cacophony of honking car horns and buskers blowing lively trumpet fanfares serenaded us, blending into the chorus of elated, cheering fans who filled the sidewalks. Their excitement was contagious, a tangible force that pulsed in the warm, mid-May air.
When we reached the bar, we had to push through the crowd that spilled out onto the sidewalk. It was a pulsating mass of sweaty bodies, dense and energetic. When we got inside, the familiar scents of malty beer mingling with greasy French fries greeted me. Harried servers hustled around the room, trays laden with drinks and food. My reflex was to tie on an apron and lend a hand, but I refrained. I was here as a customer, to enjoy myself with the players’ girlfriends.
And with Bowen.
A flutter of anticipation ran through me, my nerves tingling like tiny hummingbirds flitting about in my chest. I was so used to being in the background, serving others, that the idea of being here for myself—for him—felt both exhilarating and strange.
Hope, Emily, and I found our way to a high-top table on the patio. The patio was less crowded, a reprieve from the chaos inside. I welcomed the chance to breathe.
Robin, my replacement for the shift, took our drinks orders. “How does it feel to be on the other side?” She smirked and tucked her pad into her apron pocket.
I couldn’t help but laugh, the sound bubbling up from deep inside me. “Surreal. I feel like I should take my own order.”
Leaning forward like she was sharing a secret, she lowered her voice. “You’re lucky you’re not working.” She hooked a thumb toward the main bar. “It’s a zoo in there. Even Jack has been delivering orders.”
Pleasure coursed through me like champagne bubbles, light and effervescent. I had the privilege of celebrating with Bowen instead of serving him, and my heart swelled with thanks.
As players trickled in, Hudson was among the first, his tall frame cutting through the crowd with ease. He made a beeline for Whitney, sweeping her into his arms with a wide grin that made her laugh.
I nodded toward the couple and said to Robin, “Serve them next. Whitney will need to eat.” My tone was gentle, but insistent.
Robin frowned in confusion but nodded. “Will do,” she said before heading in their direction.
“That was nice of you,” Hope said with reciprocal kindness.
I shrugged, trying to downplay the gesture. “I know Hudson worries about her.” I wasn’t sure why, but Hudson always made sure she had something to eat as soon as possible. There was a story there, but I wasn’t privy to it.
A commotion at the door caught my attention. Beck, larger than life, appeared and threw his arms wide. “Fan-fucking-tastic game, you motherfucking champions!” he yelled.
A chorus of cheers erupted around the patio, the sound deafening as everyone celebrated the victory. Hope rolled her eyes, but the grin on her lips betrayed her amusement. Beck’s exuberance was infectious, and I grinned at his over-the-top, foul-mouthed enthusiasm.
Chase followed Beck onto the patio, his easy smile and relaxed demeanor a stark contrast to Beck’s grand entrance. Bowen brought up the rear, his presence a quiet, calming force that immediately drew my attention. My heart gave a little flutter as I watched him approach, his strides purposeful and confident.
In a few long steps, the men reached our table. Beck and Chase greeted Hope and Emily with hugs and kisses.
Bowen came to my side. “Hey,” he said, shifting from foot to foot. He glanced at the couples still making out, and a blush bloomed on his cheeks.
It was a rare sight, seeing him flustered, and it endeared him to me even more.
An awkward giggle threatened to escape my throat, but I tamped it down, instead summoning a smile. “Congrats on your goal. And the win! Oh my God, you’re going to the Stanley Cup finals!” The words tumbled out of me, my excitement barely contained.
The corner of his mouth twitched. He grunted in satisfaction, a sound that was all Bowen and strangely comforting.
I laughed. “I’m going to get you to smile someday.”
He shook his head, but his light brown eyes twinkled. “You can try.”
My stomach floated like a helium balloon at his flirty response. “I’ll take that dare.” The possibilities made my head spin.
As our exchange warmed me, a woman circulated through the room, her camera lens capturing candid moments. Ice froze my veins as panic surged through me. “Who is that?” I asked tightly. I turned away from her and whispered, “I don’t want my picture taken.”
Bowen’s gaze followed my line of sight, and he frowned. “That’s the social media assistant. I’ll have a word with her,” he said.
I watched anxiously as he strode over to the young woman. They spoke briefly, Bowen’s demeanor loose and relaxed, and she nodded. Relief flooded through me as Bowen returned, his presence once again a comfort.
“Thanks for that,” I said, my voice thick with gratitude. The weight of potential exposure lifted from my shoulders, leaving me lighter, freer for the evening.
He grunted, his way of acknowledging the thanks without making a big deal of it. “Did you enjoy the game?” Bowen asked, his tone rough but attentive—and nervous?—as if my opinion genuinely mattered to him.
“In the words of your captain, it was fan-freaking-tastic.” My enthusiasm bubbled over. “Being in the arena was incredible. Thanks so much for the ticket.” I bounced on my toes, the thrill of the night still coursing through me.
His lips twitched again, making me smile. “Find a replacement for the last home game of the finals, just in case.”
My insides lit up with hope—he expected to still want to see me by then.
“The series will start in San Jose for two games, switch to Boston for two games, then alternate between San Jose and Boston. If the series extends to seven games, it will end in San Jose. I want you there. I’ll give you the date once the league announces the schedule.” His deep, commanding baritone rumbled through me, the words a promise, an invitation, and a challenge all wrapped into one.
“Boston?” The name of the city was enough to send a ripple of anxiety through me, memories threatening to surface.
He cocked his head. “Yeah. They’re the Eastern Conference Champions. Why?”
“No reason,” I said quickly, forcing a smile that felt fragile and brittle. My skin crawled to think that my old life could overlap with the new life I’d built for myself.
Robin interrupted, delivering our drinks and appetizers, her movements quick and efficient as she placed the plates and glasses on the table. Beck had gone all out, ordering a feast of chicken, beef, and pork sliders, crispy chicken strips, and a mountain of golden fries. I sipped my chardonnay while the men, ravenous after their grueling game, fell on the food. It was easy to see they were starving—burning all those calories on the ice left them with an insatiable hunger for piles of bar foods.
As I watched them eat, their laughter and banter filling the air, a warm sense of belonging settled over me. This was a moment I hadn’t expected: a simple, unguarded moment of connection. My heart skipped a beat, and I couldn’t help but steal a glance at Bowen. His focus was on his food, but there was a contentment in his expression that made me feel like maybe, just maybe, I was carving out a place for myself in his world.
But the moment shattered when Jack appeared at the entry to the patio, his short hair standing on end as if he’d been raking his fingers through it in frustration. His wild gaze scanned the area, frantic and desperate, until it settled on me. My heart sank as he rushed over. “We’re swamped. You’ve got to help us.”
I had a rocky relationship with Jack because of my track record of accidents, but my co-workers depended on my help and a sense of duty tugged at me. With a heavy heart, I placed my wineglass on the table. “Let me just grab my a?—”
Before I could finish, a growl thundered through Bowen’s chest, the sound sending a jolt of shock and something else —something thrilling—through me. My stomach dropped, and I froze, my eyes widening as I looked around the group. Concerned expressions met mine, their support clear, and I realized what I was doing. I wasn’t just a server tonight—I was a guest, a date. I was here to enjoy myself, not to work.
I shook my head, forcing myself to step back from my knee-jerk response to my boss’s request. “Jack, I’m here with friends and I’m—” I glanced at Bowen, his fixed gaze grounding me. He nodded, taking my hand in his, the warmth of his touch a silent reassurance. I squeezed his hand, my stomach lifting. “I’m on a date.”
Jack frowned, his gaze flicking between Bowen and me, confusion and frustration warring on his face.
“Livi said she’d be home tonight. Try calling her in,” I suggested, wanting to offer a solution without sacrificing my evening. She’d been my backup in case Robin couldn’t cover for me.
“But you’re here. Now,” Jack pressed, his tone sharp and unforgiving. He was desperate, but I knew I couldn’t give in.
“And she said she wasn’t available,” Bowen said firmly, a hint of gravel in his tone that brooked no argument.
I patted Bowen’s arm and felt the taut muscles beneath his suit jacket, hard and unyielding. “Call Livi, Jack. She’ll help you out,” I said gently, hoping to defuse the situation.
His jaw clenched, Jack turned and stalked away, leaving me to exhale and lower my guard again.
Bowen grunted, his eyes following Jack’s retreating figure. “Is he going to give you trouble?”
“Don’t worry about me. I’ll smooth it over.” I’d talked my way into the job, I could talk my way out of trouble. I picked up my wineglass. “To friends!”
The group cheered, their voices ringing out as we clinked our glasses together. The tension melted away, replaced by the warmth of friendship and victory. The conversation naturally shifted to that night’s game, and thanks to Whitney’s patient tutoring, I found myself able to follow along. The team had four days to prepare for the Stanley Cup finals, and then they’d play Game One on Monday.
The evening wound down. Bowen leaned in close, his breath warm against my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. “Let’s get out of here,” he murmured, the words a private invitation that made my heart skip a beat.
We said goodnight to our friends, their smiles and waves a testament to the acceptance I’d found in their group. Bowen took my hand, his grip firm but gentle, and led me through the main dining room. As we passed the bar, Livi offered a wave and a smile. I mouthed, “Thank you.”
We reached my car in the employee parking lot. The lot was quieter now, the earlier chaos of the night replaced by the soft hum of distant traffic and the occasional burst of laughter. I leaned against the driver’s side door. “I had fun tonight. Thanks for the ticket and…the date.”
He grunted his assent and leaned on the roof of my CR-V with a hand. He said, “Despite tonight, I know you’re cautious about being seen in public with me.” He looked around the parking lot, his gaze sharp and alert, as if searching for something—or someone. “So, would you like to have lunch at my condo tomorrow?” He held up his hands in a defensive posture, as if expecting hesitation. “No funny business. Hope has been there as my agent, and Beck hasn’t tried to kill me for it. Yet.” His lips did that twitching thing I loved so much.
My stomach fluttered with nerves and excitement, and a smile lit my voice. “That would be great. What can I bring?” I asked, the question laced with hope and a little fear—fear of what this could become, of what it already was becoming.
“Just yourself. I’ll text my address to you. One o’clock?”
I nodded, my heart pounding. “I’ll be there.”
He opened my car door, the small gesture appreciated. I slid inside. My body thrummed with the anticipation of seeing him again as I pulled away.
But beneath the excitement, a thread of anxiety wound its way through me, tightening with each passing mile. At what point did I tell him who I really was? No one in my new life knew my true identity, and the thought of opening up, of revealing the truth, was a monumental leap of faith that terrified me.
My gut told me I could trust Bowen—that he was someone who would understand, who would stand by me no matter what. But my head was more cautious, urging me to take my time, to get to know him better before taking such a huge risk.