Chapter 17 Julian
The arena comes into view as the last of the early-evening light fades. Game nights always carry an electricity, visible even from the parking lot, in the steady flow of fans and how people move with excitement toward the doors.
Tonight is no different. And yet, for me, it is.
It’s been five days since that first real dinner with Harper, and in that short span, everything has changed in a way I didn’t ever anticipate and, more notably, have not resisted.
We’ve had dinner two more times, each evening ending long before I wanted it to.
Every hour I’ve spent with her since has only strengthened my initial impression.
The more I learn, the more there is to learn.
She’s layered, and each layer makes her more and more compelling.
I’ve spent time with extraordinary people my entire life, but very few of them have held my attention like she does.
I pull the Range Rover into my reserved space.
I’m driving and there was a slight disagreement with Harper when she arrived to pick me up tonight.
She’s in work mode and well, I want to be in play mode.
This line between professional and personal blurs more every day, and I don’t want her to be on the clock.
I told her as much and insisted she sit her pretty butt in the passenger seat tonight.
I remain seated, watching the movement of the lot through the windshield—fans in Vipers’ colors, staff weaving between vehicles, the anticipation building as the evening takes shape.
My reverie is broken when Harper hops out of the passenger seat and walks around the front of the car to my side. She pulls open my door, as any good chauffeur would do despite the fact I drove and she did not.
Then I reach into the back seat and pull the Vipers jersey out of the bag I’d tossed back there. I step out of the car and let it unfurl. It’s clean, simple—green lettering against white jersey fabric—and the name across the back. Her name: Hawthorne.
“I had this made for you,” I say as I hold it up for her to see.
Her expression changes immediately. “Julian…”
“I want you to come in and watch the game with me,” I say, extending it toward her.
She takes it carefully, her fingers brushing over the lettering on the back—her name stitched on my team’s jersey. “It’s beautiful. But… I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to watch the game with you.”
“Why not?”
“Because… well, because it’s weird. I’m your driver.”
“You’re more than that, and you know it. Should I kiss you to prove it?” I challenge.
She rolls her eyes at me. “You know what I mean. You’re the owner and you should be up in your owner’s suite doing owner things. It would be… uncomfortable for me.”
“And if I insist on it?” I ask, wondering how far I can push her.
“I’d probably insist on staying down here, where my job begins and ends,” she replies, eyes hardening slightly.
I stare at her before nodding. “I thought you might have a problem with it, but I’m asking you to trust me on this.”
She doesn’t move and I can see the indecision in her eyes.
She needs to know that I’m not only the man who can bring her on dates to private dining rooms overlooking Central Park.
I am also the man who built something, and who knows how to be here, among everyone else, not just up there, in the rarefied air of Manhattan’s elite.
“Put it on,” I tell her.
There’s hesitation but then she slips out of her coat and pulls the jersey over her head, smoothing it down as she looks at herself—first at the front, then down at the sleeves.
“It fits great,” she says, sounding surprised.
“I made sure it would.”
She looks up at me then, a smile beaming across her beautiful face.
“Come on,” I say, turning toward the entrance. “Follow me.”
Another hesitation but then she falls into step beside me. I have no clue if she’s coming along because she wants to or because I’m her boss and I told her to, but I’ll worry about that later. As we near the doors that lead to the private corridors, her instinct guides her elsewhere.
“But your box is this way,” she says, gesturing toward the familiar path to the owner’s suite.
I don’t break stride. “We’re not watching from there tonight.”
She stops for a half step, thrown. “We’re not?”
I take her hand in mine, and she jerks reflexively. I grip tighter so she won’t pull away. “Wouldn’t want you to be uncomfortable now, would we?”
She frowns at my cryptic statement. “Then where are we watching from?”
“With everyone else.”
We make our way to the uppermost bowl—the nosebleeds. These are the seats that don’t change hands often. The people here are fixtures, season ticket–holding diehards.
“This is us,” I say, stepping into the row.
A few heads turn, a couple of double takes, but before anything can register too clearly, a familiar voice cuts through.
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
I look over and grin. “Evening, Al.”
Big Al is exactly as he’s always been—broad-shouldered, arms inked from wrist to collar, a Vipers beanie pulled over his head.
He’s been sitting in this section longer than I’ve owned the team, inherited seats from his father, a retired fireman who used to bring Al to games when the building was a very different place.
“Didn’t think we’d see you here,” he says, standing to clap me on the shoulder.
“Figured I’d check in on the real fans,” I reply.
He snorts. “About time.”
His eyes turn to Harper, taking in the jersey, the name across the back, the fact that she’s with me.
“Who’s this?” he asks.
“This is my date… Harper Hawthorne.”
Al nods once, offering her a smile. “You picked a good night. We’ve been waiting for Philly all week.”
“And I’m here for all of it,” she says, fitting right in.
We settle into the seats. Harper leans forward, elbows on her knees, eyes already tracking the ice as players make their final adjustments before puck drop.
The lights dim slightly, the opening sequence beginning, and the excitement in the building shifts. It’s different here than it is in the suite. The energy here is palpable.
The puck drops, and the game starts fast.
Philadelphia presses early, trying to establish pace, but we match it cleanly. The passes are crisp, the spacing tight, the kind of execution that reflects what I’ve been seeing all week. All month, really.
We’re playing well. Really well.
Midway through the first period, we capitalize—Grizz drives the net, pulls the defense just enough out of position, and Tanner buries it top shelf. The section erupts, Al on his feet immediately, his shouting unintelligible but enthusiastic.
Harper laughs beside me, caught up in it, her reaction unfiltered.
“You see that?” she says, turning to me.
“I did.”
“That was—”
“Awesome,” I finish.
She high-fives Al and the rest of the people nearby.
During a TV timeout in the second, the Jumbotron sweeps across sections until it lands—predictably—on Al.
The crowd recognizes him before the camera even stops and focuses on him, a ripple of cheers building as he stands, already preparing.
“Here we go,” I mutter.
“What’s happening?” Harper asks, already smiling.
“Signature move.”
Al launches into it, some hybrid of a shuffle and a shoulder roll that makes absolutely no sense and yet somehow works perfectly. The section loses it, people on their feet, clapping, shouting his name.
The camera lingers, so I improvise… I pull my hat down lower, angling my face away as I stand, stepping into the edge of the frame without fully giving myself up.
“You’re not—” Harper starts, already laughing.
I don’t answer. I join him.
It’s ridiculous and I’m aware of that, but for a few seconds it doesn’t matter. The crowd feeds it, the noise rising, Al pointing at me mid-dance like he’s just pulled off the greatest assist of his life.
I shake my head, stepping back as the camera cuts away, dropping back into my seat before the recognition catches up.
Harper stares at me, laughing openly now. “I cannot believe you just did that.”
“Neither can I,” I reply, though the corner of my mouth betrays me.
“You’re insane.”
“Occasionally.”
The game resumes, and the momentum continues building.
We add another before the end of the second, Grizz this time, reading the play perfectly and slipping it past the goalie before the defense can recover. Philadelphia answers early in the third, but we don’t let it derail our momentum. We stay disciplined.
By the time the final horn sounds, the scoreboard reads 4–2 and we have another solid win in the books.
The section stands again, applause rolling through the building, and I remain where I am, taking it in—not from above, not from behind the glass of my suite, but from among the people who carry this team with them, game after game, season after season.
Beside me, Harper rises with the rest of them, the jersey fitting her like it belongs there… because it does.
After the game, we spill out with the rest of the crowd, the noise of the arena following us into the night before it dissipates into the open air.
The cold has softened, just enough that it doesn’t bite the way it did earlier, and I pause beside the Range Rover, keys in hand, already knowing I’m not going to use them.
“It’s not that cold out,” I say, glancing up the street before looking back at her. “We could walk.”
Harper follows my gaze, then back to me, a small smile forming. “Walk? But the car…”
“I’ll have someone pick it up tomorrow morning,” I add, taking her hand in mine. “I need to work off the damage I did to that plate of fully loaded nachos in the third period.”
She laughs. “That’s very responsible of you.”
“I try my best,” I reply.
We walk north on Broadway and she touches her right ear and lets out a gasp.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“I think I lost my earring. It must have come out while we were celebrating with Big Al.”
“I’ll call our rink operations right now and tell them to find it.”
“No, no. That’s okay. It was a fake diamond. This is why I’m glad I never spent money on expensive jewelry. Forget it… anyways, it was well worth losing a stupid earring for all the excitement we experienced with that group.”
“You sure?”
She nods as we continue up the busy Manhattan street.
“That was really fun,” she says finally, glancing over at me. “I mean… I knew I’d like the game, but that?” She shakes her head, smiling. “It was incredible… I loved hanging with those fans.”
“The section helps,” I say. “They take it seriously.”
“I can tell,” she replies. “Big Al alone is an experience.”
“He’s been doing that dance for fifteen years. Did you notice the scarf he was wearing? The Vipers one. Apparently, his mom made it for his dad decades ago and his dad passed it down to him. I’ve been meaning to see if our merchandise team can start producing them.”
“Well, he’s an icon. And his dancing was incredible. And you just… joined him,” she says, still both amused and possibly impressed. “I did not see that coming.”
“Neither did I,” I admit.
Harper looks at me as we reach the end of a sidewalk and wait for the light to change. “I like this side of you,” she says.
I glance over. “This side?”
“The jeans, the T-shirt and hat, the guy who sits with the season ticket holders and knows all their names,” she says, her voice light but meaningful. “The one who… fits there.”
I let that sit for a second before answering. “It’s still me.”
“I know,” she says quickly. “And I like the other version too. The one in the suits, the one who runs everything and somehow makes it look easy.” She smiles faintly. “But I didn’t expect this part.”
“Most people don’t see it,” I reply. “Not because I hide it. It’s just… not always necessary.”
She nods. “Well, I’m glad I did.”
So am I.
We turn onto her block, the noise of the city tapering further, the familiar rhythm of her neighborhood arriving. The buildings here are different: older, closer together, more authentic than most parts of Manhattan… just like her.
We reach her stoop and she turns toward me, lingering instead of immediately reaching for the door.
“I really did have fun tonight,” she says, her voice softer now. “Not just the game. All of it.”
“I’m glad,” I reply.
She hesitates for a fraction of a second, then as if it’s an afterthought, adds, “You know… the way you interact with those people, I know it’s you just being you, but I can tell it means a lot to them.”
“I enjoy it, I do.”
“I know how important it makes them feel,” she says.
“It was nothing,” I say.
She shakes her head. “No. It’s more than nothing. It’s special… and thoughtful.”
I step closer, my hand coming lightly to her waist as I lean in.
Her mouth meets mine.
The kiss is deeper than our prior ones. She leans into me, her hand finding my T-shirt, the cherry ChapStick on her beautiful lips, the way she responds. Everything else falls away.
When I pull back, it’s slow, but I don’t put distance between us.
“I’ve been thinking,” I say.
Her eyes search mine. “That’s dangerous.”
“Occasionally,” I reply, a faint smile touching my mouth before it fades. “About Christmas.”
She nods slightly.
“You’re going to be here. Alone.”
“It’s not that dramatic,” she says.
“But I’m not sure it makes sense to me,” I counter.
She tilts her head, studying me now. “Where is this going?”
“I’ve been meaning to get away,” I say. “My place in the Bahamas, an hour outside Nassau. Just for a few days before the new year.”
Her breath hitches and she looks startled.
“Come with me,” I add, holding her gaze. “It’s quiet there. Warm. The exact opposite of this, and Dylan’s going to be out of town.” I gesture lightly around us. “You could use it. So could I.”
There’s a pause, not long, but enough that I know she’s considering it, weighing the same things she always weighs.
She exhales slowly, her eyes flicking away for a second before coming back to me.
“This is a big ask,” she says.
“I know.”
“And you always go big,” she adds, teasing. I want to kiss her again, but first I want her to say yes.
“I like to think I’m efficient with my asks.”
That earns me a small laugh, and then she looks at me again. “Okay,” she says finally.
“Okay?”
“Yes, okay… I’d like that… I’d really, really like to join you.”
Yes, finally.
I close the space between us in one step, my hand sliding up the back of her neck, fingers threading into her hair as I tilt her face up to mine.
My mouth meets hers hard, hungry. Her breath catches and her hands come up against my chest, gripping my coat, and I pull her tighter, close enough that there’s no air left between us, only the heat of her and the word yes still warm on her tongue,
with that faint trace of cherry ChapStick giving me tingles.