Chapter 5
Ingrid
The tour schedule gave us a rare breather today. No travel. No meet-and-greets. Just a wide, blessed window of silence. It’s the chance to sleep in, answer emails, get in a little vocal rest, and maybe take a bath that doesn't jostle with every pothole like it does on the tour bus.
But something else kept me in Wittmore.
Hockey.
I’m used to fanbases. I have a massive one of my own, but just being in Wittmore exposed me to the fervor of the energy around college hockey.
At the show last night, there were just as many hockey jerseys on the fans as there was Ingrid Flockton merch.
The business side of me wants to know a little bit more.
And the girl who kissed Jefferson Parks two nights ago?
Well, maybe she wants to know a little bit more about the man who lit my skin on fire.
That’s how I end up texting Mads, telling her to get dressed and to meet me downstairs. She didn’t ask questions, showed up just as ready to get out of the hotel as I am.
“How did you find this place?” she asks after we’re settled in a booth in the back of the Badger Den.
Marv had plowed through the rowdy crowd, creating a path to get us to the booth.
He came in early and spoke to the owner, who was happy to save a spot for us.
There are TV screens hanging for every angle, but the largest is a massive screen above the bar playing pregame commentary for the Frozen Four semi-final. All eyes are on the TV. Except mine.
Mine are on the laminated menu, but my brain isn’t really registering the words. It’s replaying a kiss over and over, to the point that I think I may have a problem.
“Ing.” Madison snaps me back to the present. “How did you find this place?”
“Oh, I just googled the best hamburgers in Wittmore and had one delivered to the hotel last night.” It’s shocking how easily that lie comes out. “Seriously, though, this hamburger is to die for. I’ve been craving it for two days.”
I’ve been craving more of Jefferson Parks since the moment we said goodnight.
That kiss. God. I’ve had guys kiss me. I’ve had guys who wanted something from me, but this was different.
It was all heat and rough fingertips, the scrape of his jaw against mine, the firm hold of his hand under my chin, tilting my head exactly where he wanted it.
His other hand had been around my waist, but barely. Like he was holding himself back from grabbing me fully, throwing me over his shoulder caveman-style. There was a moment–just a flicker–where I thought he might, and the way my entire body responded was... intense.
And yeah. I noticed. The way he pressed up against me, the very obvious, very hard and defined evidence of just how badly he wanted me. He didn’t try to hide it. That did something to me. Something Jake never did.
Jake always made me feel like a chore. Like loving me was just this.
.. inconvenience. Like he was doing me a favor.
I had to tiptoe around his moods, practically audition for affection.
When we were together, it felt like being halfway underwater all the time, like if I spoke too loudly or wanted too much, he’d just let me drown.
Jefferson made me feel the opposite. Seen. Desired. Powerful.
And that was just from sharing dinner and a kiss.
The concert last night had been electric.
My voice felt smoother, my body lighter, my moves more natural.
I swear, the whole thing had this extra charge.
Like kissing Jefferson flipped a breaker inside me.
A man like that–big, cocky, a little dangerous–I can’t help but wonder what it would feel like to go all the way.
Would it leave me glowing like that again? Or completely wrecked?
Either option sounds great, honestly.
Our waitress shows up just as Wittmore hits the ice. She’s cute, in a down-to-earth way, with a long blond braid, black leggings, and a Wittmore hockey jersey. Her green eyes are wide–fangirl wide–and she bites down on her bottom lip.
“I’m Shelby,” her voice wobbles, “and I’ll be your server.
” Then in a low rush she adds, “But can I just say that I love you and your music. I was at the show last night and it was incredible. And I promise not to act weird, but I just needed to say something so that I could get it out of the way and we could move on.”
I laugh. “It’s fine. And I’m glad you enjoyed the show.”
She bounces on her toes a little. “It was so great. Amazing really.” She breathes in and exhales. “Okay, would you like to hear our specials? I think–”
She turns, flashing the back of her jersey.
“Rakestraw-slash-Wilder?” Madison asks, amused. “What, couldn’t pick just one?”
The girl rolls her eyes playfully. “That’s my brother and my boyfriend. My brother made this because, as he says, ‘family comes first.’”
She uses finger quotes, and Madison barks out a laugh, but my ears perk up. Rakestraw and Wilder. I know those names.
Jefferson mentioned a few of his roommates in passing the other night. “So who’s who? Your boyfriend and your brother?”
“Axel Rakestraw is my older brother. I moved out here about a month ago and have been staying with him.” Her cheeks get a little pink. “But Reid Wilder is my boyfriend.”
“You didn’t want to go to the game?” Madison asks, nodding at the TV. “It looks like a blast.”
“They told us not to come unless they make the finals. Superstition or whatever. So now we just sit here and ‘manifest.’”
“‘We’?” I ask, lifting a brow.
She tips her head toward a high-top table near the window. Two girls sit perched on stools, both leaning forward, eyes glued to the game. They’re in full Wittmore gear.
“That’s Twyler,” she points to a cute girl with a dark ponytail. “She dates Reese Cain, captain of the team. And Nadia is my brother’s girlfriend.”
I take in her friend. Her shirt is low cut, tits straining at the V, but the name across the back is definitive: RAKESTRAW 01.
“We’ve formed a bit of a weird support group.”
A support group for girls who love hockey players.
“Oh,” Madison says. “You’re WAGs.”
Wives and girlfriends of athletes. The college version at least.
My eyes skip between the three of them for a moment. How normal they look, sitting in this bar, dressed up to support their men. Like, they own this part of their life instead of avoiding it.
Jake never even came to my shows, and he absolutely refused to walk a red carpet.
Mads notices my silence. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I lie, turning back to the menu. “Just hungry.”
She gives me a long look, but doesn’t push it.
And I’m relieved to change the subject by ordering.
Shelby scribbles mine down, then grins. “That’s funny–our friend Jefferson orders the same thing every time.
Burger, bacon, avocado, and crispy onions on top.
The kitchen started calling it the Jefferson Parks Special. ”
My stomach flips.
Madison perks up. “Wait–who’s Jefferson Parks?”
I manage a casual shrug, masking the flush in my cheeks. “Just one of their players, right?” My voice is breezy, but my chest pounds. What if she figures it out? That I met up with him two nights ago?
“You know, he’d freak out if he knew you ordered this. He’s a huge fan.”
I wait a beat, but if she knows anything, if Jefferson told her anything that happened between us, she doesn’t let on and excuses herself to go drop off our order.
“I think this is a first,” Madison says after taking a sip of water.
“What’s a first?”
“That we’ve been out and people are more interested in a game on TV than you.”
I laugh, but she’s not wrong. The bar is so involved in the game that no one even notices us.
It’s nice and it’s not long before I find myself drawn in, trying to follow it on the big screen.
The puck moves so fast I can barely keep track of it, bouncing off the ice and boards-sometimes the guys themselves.
The players speed across the ice on skates the way I own the stage in a pair of six-inch heels.
It's powerful. Magnetic. And my eyes desperately search for one name and number.
#23 Parks
The energy shifts in the room and I try to follow what’s happening on the ice. Across from us the girl with the ponytail jumps to her feet.
“Oh, come on!” she shouts, loud enough that half the bar glances over. “You’ve got to crash the net there. Soft rebound like that and you’re backing off?”
She throws her hands up, her dark curls bouncing with the motion, then presses her palms to the table like she’s physically restraining herself from climbing over it.
Nadia, across from her, doesn’t even flinch–she’s focused, arms crossed, chewing at her straw while her eyes track the puck like a hawk.
From our table, I glance at Madison. She blinks, lost.
“I need that girl over here to explain what the hell is going on,” Madison mutters.
As if summoned, Shelby returns with a steaming basket of fries. She sets them down between us with a dramatic flair, right as the buzzer goes off to signal the end of the first period.
Madison reaches for a fry and gestures toward Twyler and Nadia with her other hand. “Do you think your friends would want to sit with us? Maybe help us understand what we’re watching?”
Shelby’s green eyes go wide. “You want Twyler to join you during a game?” she whispers, like it's a dare. Then she bites her lip, clearly thrilled, and spins on her heel. “Give me one minute.”
I watch her bounce over to their table and lean in between them. She says something low, and both girls freeze. Then Twyler whips her head around, mouth slightly open in disbelief, like she’s making sure we’re really talking about them.
Nadia arches a brow, skeptical but curious.
Twyler shrugs, grabs her cider and half-eaten hot dog, and nods toward us. “Guess we’re relocating,” I hear her say, as she picks up her tray.
Nadia follows with an amused smile, sliding her phone into her back pocket.