Chapter 33
T hree weeks later
Laurent
I ’M HALF-DRESSED AS I bolt down the private hallway toward our suite at Madison Square Garden. The place is electric tonight, crowds roaring, lights flashing, the hum of anticipation buzzing through the walls. But none of that matters until I know they got my gifts.
Rowan and Sébastien. I’ve been planning this for days. Hell, weeks. Ever since Cole and Mass gave the green light for us to start courting them officially. And if I’m going to play my part, I’m going to do it right.
Matching custom jerseys in Knights colors, of course, but with a subtle embroidered patch on the inside hem that reads mine . Sunglasses with their initials etched in the arms, because nothing says “I’m into you” like a little luxury eyewear. And the snacks? Don’t even get me started.
I practically sold my soul to a shady online reseller to track down those rare honeycomb crisps Sébastien mentioned once, offhand, during lunch. For Rowan? Salted dark chocolate caramels from that tiny artisan shop in Brooklyn she posted about six months ago . I remembered. I always remember.
I shove the suite door open, hair still damp from the post-practice shower, hoping I don’t look as winded as I feel.
“Tell me you got ‘em,” I say, grinning as I scan the room for their reactions. “Because I brought my A-game tonight.”
Rowan spins around in her seat, and gods, she’s wearing it. My jersey. Over that soft, shimmery blouse she had on earlier, like it was always meant to be layered with my number. The sunglasses are perched on her head, and when she pushes them down dramatically over her eyes like some kind of movie star, I swear my heart does something stupid in my chest.
“You brought something , all right,” she says, holding up a bag of peach rings like it’s an award. “These are impossible to find.”
I press my hand to my chest, mock-hurt. “Do you know how many bodegas I had to charm for those? I’m practically a saint.”
Sébastien is lounging beside her, already halfway through the custom macaron box I hunted down from that allergy-safe patisserie downtown. He lifts one, all smug. “These are divine.”
“That’s because I have excellent taste,” I say, pointing between the two of them. “Which is why you’re both here. And wearing my number. Admit it. I’m your favorite.”
Rowan just smirks. “Don’t push your luck, rookie.”
“ Rookie ?” I feign outrage. “Oh, you wound me.”
She laughs, low and lovely, and Sébastien smiles quietly beside her. The sound settles something in me I didn’t know needed settling. I swagger further into the suite, basking in the sight of my mates, my mates, in my colors.
“By the way,” I say, dropping into the nearest chair, “glad the jerseys fit. I wasn’t sure about the sizes, but I had a feeling.”
Rowan smiles, one brow lifting above the designer sunglasses I’d gotten her. “You had them custom made?”
I flash a grin. “Of course I did. You think I’d give my scent matches anything off the rack?”
Rowan rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling, really smiling, and Sébastien gives me that soft, approving look that makes my chest do something stupid.
“No glitter thread, though,” I add, pointing at Sébastien.
He sighs dramatically. “Tragic.”
Rowan’s laugh bubbles out, light and real, and I swear I’d have every jersey in the league stitched in gold if it meant keeping that sound around.
He sighs dramatically. “Tragic. A missed opportunity, really. I was going to wear it with my silk scarf and crush dreams.”
Rowan snorts. “Please. You’d bedazzle the skates if they let you.”
“I would,” Sébastien agrees, unapologetic. “Style is power.”
I lean back in the chair, draping an arm across the backrest with a grin. “You’re both lucky I like you. Anyone else would be getting a foam finger and a signed puck, if they were lucky.”
Rowan grins, eyes bright. “Do I still get the foam finger?”
“Only if you promise to wave it every time I score.”
Sébastien smirks. “You planning to score tonight, Laurent?”
I waggle my brows. “On and off the ice.”
That earns a chorus of groans and laughter, exactly the reaction I was going for. A knock sounds at the door, followed by a staffer poking their head in. “Sable, you’ve got three minutes.”
I push up from the chair. “Duty calls. You two better be screaming my name from this suite when I light up the scoreboard.”
“Only if you make it worth it,” Rowan teases.
“Oh, sweetheart,” I toss over my shoulder with a wink, “I always do.”
Then I’m out the door, heart lighter than it’s been in weeks.