Chapter 10
Ingrid
There’s no anonymity this time. Not even close.
The minute I step out of the SUV, the press is waiting, lenses flashing like strobe lights at the club.
Shouts of my name mix with questions I have no intention of answering.
Marv muscles his way through security, clearing a path like he’s parting the Red Sea.
Madison stays glued to my side, her phone in one hand, her expression set to ice queen mode.
It feels different from the other night.
That time, I slipped in unnoticed, blending in with my signature pastel hair tucked under the beanie and cheering like I was just another fan in the stands.
Tonight, there’s no pretending. Everyone knows I’m here, and worse–they’re determined to find out why I’m here.
“Ingrid! Do you know someone on the team?”
“Ingrid! Have you always been a hockey fan?”
“Ingrid! Who do you think will win tonight?”
I give a small smirk, but no comment. Tonight isn’t about me.
We bypass the crowded concourse and head straight for the suite Madison secured.
No more hanging out right behind the glass.
Marv’s insistence. Inside, the energy flips instantly.
Shelby, Twyler, and Nadia are already there, buzzing like they’ve just walked into the VIP section of heaven.
“Did you see all this food?” Twyler is already at the buffet, a pile of snacks on her plate. She’s dressed in Reese’s oversized jersey and a pair of ripped jeans. “Nachos and sliders.”
“Don’t forget the open bar,” Nadia adds, eyeing the bartender.
Nadia spins in a slow circle, her wide eyes taking in the private seating, the glass wall overlooking the rink. “This is unreal. Ingrid, you’ve officially ruined regular seats for us forever.”
I laugh, shedding my coat and handing it off to Madison, who folds it with military precision and drapes it over the back of a chair. “Aren’t the guys headed to the pros? I’m sure you’ll get special seating.”
“Yeah, but we won’t be together,” Nadia says, giving me a kind look. “So thanks for this. Really.”
The puck drops, and the roar of the crowd filters through the glass, muted but still electric. Even from up here, the intensity thrums. Jefferson’s out there on the ice, moving faster than my eyes can track, but I feel him like a magnetic pull.
I don’t totally understand the rules: the constant line changes, the way the puck disappears into a scramble of sticks and bodies, but the energy is contagious. Every time someone slams against the boards, the entire arena vibrates.
“God, did you see that hit?” Shelby practically shrieks, gripping her beer like it’s a stress ball.
“Clean,” Twyler assures her, though she doesn’t sound entirely convinced.
“That’s the best part,” Nadia adds with a smirk. “Controlled violence.”
I laugh, shaking my head, but I can’t stop watching Jefferson.
When he’s on the ice, the crowd reacts before I even know why, like they can sense something’s about to happen.
And it’s not just him–it’s the way he and his teammates seem to move as one.
A sharp pass, a quick shift, someone always in position.
It’s choreography without music, perfectly timed and brutal all the same.
It reminds me of being on stage with my musicians and dancers, when everything clicks and the sound swells bigger than the sum of its parts. That unspoken rhythm, the instinctive give-and-take. Jefferson thrives in it. He leads, but he also trusts, and it makes them all stronger together.
I sip my drink and lean back in the plush seat, pretending I’m just here for a night with the girls. But every time the number 23 blurs past, I catch myself holding my breath. I think about that kiss, how the hands wielding that stick with such power were on me the night before–strong but gentle.
I fan myself with my hand.
“Are you okay?” Madison looks me over.
“Yeah, just a little warm in all these clothes.”
She’s barely watching the game, scrolling her phone.
Below, the puck whips across the ice, stick to stick so fast I almost miss it. Then Jefferson cuts toward the net, skimming past the St. Alden’s defender, shoulders down, blades spraying ice as he pivots.
“Here it comes,” Nadia murmurs, leaning forward with both hands braced on her knees.
It happens in a blur–the sharp crack of his stick, the puck sailing past the goalie’s glove, the light flashing. The crowd erupts, a wall of sound so loud I feel it in my chest.
“YES!” Twyler jumps to her feet, her plate of food tumbling to the floor. Shelby and Nadia cling to one another in an excited embrace.
And me? I’m frozen. My heart’s in my throat, my palms slick. Because Jefferson isn’t celebrating with the guys who swarm him, not really. His helmet’s still on, but his gaze lifts, and I swear he looks straight up at our box. Straight at me.
Everything around me fades, I can’t hear anything over the rush in my ears. He’s smiling–wild, unstoppable. I’ve never been so turned on in my life.
I sink back into my seat, trying to act like I’m not completely undone, but it’s useless.
Two kisses and this man is fully under my skin. What happens if I let him in any further?
It all comes down to the final moments of the game.
Wittmore’s up by one, and St. Alden’s pulling every desperate move they have left.
The intensity is not like anything I’ve ever felt before.
Winning in my world isn’t like this. The Grammys, the MTV statues, and gold records…
there’s no clock winding down, no other player breathing down my neck, fighting over the same little puck.
This is raw. Heated. Violent. The puck cuts across the ice like a blade, a St. Alden’s forward winding up with everything he’s got.
He fires.
Axel drops low, pads snapping shut like a steel trap, and swallows the shot whole.
The buzzer blares.
For half a heartbeat there’s silence–like the entire arena inhales at once–and then it erupts.
Sheer pandemonium. Fans on their feet, screaming themselves hoarse, the sound shaking the rafters.
White and navy towels whip through the air like a storm.
Players swarm Axel, piling on top of each other in ecstasy.
The pile grows as teammates from the bench join, everyone laughing and shouting over one another.
Wittmore did it, they won the Frozen Four.
“Come on!” Twyler shrieks, practically vibrating out of her seat, clutching my wrist with manic excitement.
“Where are we going?” I ask, still blinking, still trying to make sense of the chaos unraveling below.
“Down on the ice to celebrate,” Nadia says, already halfway to the stairs. Her tone makes it sound like the most obvious thing in the world.
“We can do that?”
“Hell yeah we can,” Twyler grins, already halfway down the aisle.
I follow, Marv quickly catches up and he gives me that hard, don’t-even-think-about-it look. “Ingrid, I don’t recommend—”
I cut my gaze to him. “Just one night,” I ask–no, beg. “I just want one night of normalcy.”
But I know better. It’s an impossible ask.
Not even close to realistic. During intermission, the cameras found me, zoomed in tight, and splashed my face across the jumbotron.
The crowd reaction had been split right down the middle.
Some hockey fans weren’t thrilled I’d infiltrated their sport.
But the cheers had been there too, that ripple of excitement that always comes when I show up somewhere unexpected.
Madison leaned over after the third intermission and whispered, “They’re saying you’re sitting in the WAG box.”
I’d shaken it off, but the weight lingered.
Imposter syndrome heavy in my chest as we trail Marv, who nods us through security.
We pile into a private elevator, then down a hushed hallway until we spill out into a tunnel leading straight onto the ice and the scene explodes before us.
The players are involved in a post-game handshake line.
Wittmore’s team glides along the ice, shaking hands with St. Alden’s, sportsmanship in motion, and the defeated team nods, smiles forced but respectful.
We’re not allowed on the actual ice, but Twyler works her way to the edge of the wall–a part not walled off by glass.
I don’t miss the tears at the corner of her eyes when the captains–Jefferson included–lift the trophy high for the first time.
The crowd roars. No superstition here, just pure joy.
The captains pass the trophy down the line, and every player skates a lap with it aloft, grinning, sweat and triumph mixing on their faces.
The players are everywhere–sweaty, red-cheeked, towering on their skates. They’re shouting, laughing, hugging, stopping for reporters. Pure joy and chaos.
And then they see us.
Reese makes a beeline toward Twyler. His dark hair soaked with sweat. He grabs for her and lifts her over the wall, spinning her around. “I knew it,” I see her mouth. “I love you.”
I glance away from the intimacy, and lock eyes with steel gray.
He sees me.
The world tilts on its axis.
Jefferson’s helmet is off, blond hair damp and curling around his temples, cheeks flushed with victory.
He’s laughing with his teammates, but the second his eyes cut toward me, everything stops.
At least, it feels like it does. The sound, the movement, the chaos–all of it fades under the weight of his gaze.
And in that split second, I’m exposed.
It’s painfully, humiliatingly obvious: I shouldn’t be here. Not on this ice, not in this moment, not in his world. The other girlfriends wear team colors, fitted jerseys with their boyfriends’ numbers. They belong. They’ve earned this spot.
Me? I’m just… me. Too shiny. Too loud. Too other.
I don’t belong.
“Ingrid.”
My eyes snap away from his–away from Jefferson’s easy grin, the sweat still dripping down his temple–to the reporter calling my name.
Marv is already there, sliding between us like a shield, all business as he shuts it down with a clipped shake of his head.
In the same breath, Jefferson’s coach claps a heavy hand on his shoulder and steers him back toward his team.
Just like that, the moment splinters–him pulled one way, me the other.
But you can’t really break something apart that was never together in the first place.