Chapter Seven
“Hello, Scarlett! How are you doing this evening?”
I smile at Destiny, who is doing the employee security check in at the Premier Airlines Arena tonight. I show my ID, then grab a pen to sign in. While I’m not an employee of the Miami Manatees, I access the arena through the staff gate because I’m Coach Rivershon’s daughter and I have a credential.
“I’m good,” I say. “I love the braids, by the way.”
Destiny pats her black hair. “Thank you. I needed something new.”
“Well, it looks beautiful,” I say, setting down the pen.
“Enjoy the game tonight,” she says.
“I will.”
I walk down the steps to the arena entrance and pull open the door to the cavernous basement, surrounded by concrete walls and flooring, with not a window in sight. I wind my way around the familiar confines, my camera bag bouncing against my hip.
I love hockey, and during the Real Miami offseason, I attend quite a few games. I love the challenge of taking hockey pictures, even if they’re just for myself.
But tonight, I have another reason to be at the Manatees game.
I’m here to see Aiden.
I suck in an excited breath as his image comes to mind. We talked for hours on the phone last night about anything and everything, which is something I never do. If I didn’t have to get up and go to work today, I would have talked to him for hours more, and I know he felt the same way.
I like him.
I know I have no business liking Aiden, that nothing will ever come of it, and I’m putting myself in a position to be hurt by getting more involved with him. Yes, it’s a friendship, but friendships can hurt if feelings get involved.
And I’m afraid the feelings are already happening.
I stand up a little bit straighter, grabbing on to my resolve.
I need to concentrate on the friend feelings and keep romantic thoughts of him out of my head.
Tonight, I’ll make sure to take extra pictures of Beckham Bailey, a new member of the team who was acquired in a surprise trade with Denver.
I don’t have photos of him yet since I haven’t been to a game in a few weeks, and that will give me something to focus on.
Besides Aiden, that is.
I turn another corner and cold air hits me, making me shiver in my sweater. I’m getting closer to ice level. Then I make a face as I think about what I’m wearing.
I’m so full of crap.
Normally when I’m going to a game, I wear a Miami Manatees jersey, jeans, and my black Converse shoes. I pull my hair back into a ponytail.
But when I was getting ready tonight, I reached for my black cashmere sweater layered over a white T-shirt, mid-rise distressed jeans, and black booties.
I slipped on a gold chain-link necklace and simple gold hoop earrings.
My hair is down, and I’ve gone all out on my makeup, finishing with a bold red lip.
I wanted to look more than casual.
I wanted to look good for Aiden.
I turn the corner, and the rink is now in front of me.
Music is pumping through the arena, and anticipation rises in me.
I turn to the bank of elevators, and I’m greeted by Joe, the elevator attendant.
We say our hellos and then I get off at the concourse level, heading toward the end of the arena where Miami will warm up.
The concourse is buzzing with fans already.
I see some wearing Aiden’s jersey, which gives me a thrill.
People are lining up and grabbing food and drinks; others are in the team pro shop, looking at all the T-shirts and jerseys for sale.
I make my way to the section I like best for photos and walk down the steps, greeted by more frosty air.
Soon I’m rinkside, against the glass, surrounded by other fans who have arrived early to watch the team warm up.
Some are holding signs, asking to exchange something for a puck; others simply say how much they love a certain player.
I reach into my clear bag and retrieve my Nikon camera, putting the strap around my neck and taking a moment to adjust my lens.
I take a few shots of the ice, and then the PA announcer comes over the sound system.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” he booms. “Welcome to Premier Airlines Arena for tonight’s matchup of the Arizona Jaguars versus your MIAMI MANATEES!”
The crowd cheers as loud music plays. I watch the tunnel, and soon the familiar black-and-pink uniforms of the Manatees are visible. They hit the ice, and I keep my eyes peeled for Aiden.
I know the entire team, so one by one I watch them skate onto the ice. I see Wyatt, then Beckham Bailey, and finally, the one Manatee I’ve been looking for.
Aiden.
I ignore how butterflies appear in my stomach the second I see him. Aiden is so hot in his hockey uniform, and his six-four frame looks imposing in it. He skates around the back of the net, and I notice his eyes are roaming over the crowd standing behind the plexiglass.
My breath catches in my throat. Is Aiden looking for me?
He skates closer, and I keep my camera lowered. Then he spots me, his gray eyes meeting mine, his mouthguard dangling sexily from the corner of his sensual, full lips.
His mouth curves up into a brilliant smile as he skates right next to me.
I feel as if all my nerves have come to life at the same time. My heart leaps inside my chest, and when he playfully flicks his glove against the glass right in front of my face, I am completely giddy inside.
Because I know that move was for me.
All kinds of danger alerts should be going off in my head.
But I’ve short circuited them. I don’t want to think about how I’m playing with fire here.
Instead, I lift my camera and focus on Aiden, who continues to skate around the net a few times.
The he moves on to practicing his stick handling, and his puck control is insane.
His hands move so quick, back and forth, in complete control of the puck.
I take some great pictures of him, then shift my attention to Beckham, getting some shots of him, too.
There’s nothing like taking hockey pictures. Every time I do it, I’m reminded of how much I love it.
I steal another glance at Aiden, only to find he’s already staring at me. A shiver races down my spine, and Aiden flashes me a smile before he turns his attention back to the ice.
But my gaze remains trained on him.
I’m in so much trouble.
And worst of all? It’s trouble I’m making no effort to avoid.
* * *
I’ve never had feelings like this when watching a hockey game.
I’m sitting next to my mom in Dad’s usual set of seats, several rows back behind the bench.
I’ve been to countless hockey games, often watching my brothers play and supporting my dad wherever he coached.
Usually, I have no problems conversing with Mom during a game, but tonight it’s been hard for me to focus on what she’s saying.
So much so that she asked why I’m distracted, and I just played it off that I was tired.
But that was a lie.
The truth is, I can’t think about anything other than watching Aiden.
It’s hard to concentrate when I’m tracking Aiden’s movements on the ice. He’s just jumped over the boards, ready for another shift. Every time I watch him play, one thing echoes in my mind.
He’s so incredibly talented.
Aiden is the best defenseman on the team, and while I knew that before tonight’s game, I’m paying attention now to all the little things that make him one of the league’s most elite players in that position.
He’s good at handling the puck. Dad has mentioned this before, but now I’m making a point to see it.
Aiden is also fast—one of the fastest skaters on the team.
He’s a dangerous passer, and he’s able to help on the offensive side of the game because of it.
In fact, one of his passes led to a goal tonight.
As the PA announcer tells us there’s one minute left in the game, I retrieve my phone and send Aiden a text message:
Fantastic game tonight. Your puck handling is *chef’s kiss* superb.
“Do you need to leave right away? Want to get something to eat?” Mom asks as soon as the final horn sounds. “Dad and I would love to take you out, sweetheart.”
I shake my head. “No, I’m going to go home. I’ll need some time to wind down before going to bed.”
Buzz!
My phone goes off while the Manatees players are still congratulating each other on the ice, so I know it’s not Aiden. Not that he’ll reply tonight anyway. We’re just friends. He can reply anytime he wants.
I unlock my phone and see that it’s from Phoebe, who is just now responding to my initial text last night:
Sorry. So busy! Do you still need me to answer this?
My stomach tightens as I read between the lines of her text. Phoebe might have been my best friend, but that is all in the past.
Because now she doesn’t have the time—or inclination—to continue our friendship.
And I suspect if I don’t reply to this text, I’ll never hear from her again.
“Scarlett?” I snap my head up, finding my mom has already risen from her seat. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” I say, arranging a smile on my face.
“Are you sure don’t want to go out with us?” she asks, a look of concern filtering across her features.
I pick up my camera bag and put it over my shoulder before rising from my seat. “I’m sure. I’m tired. I’m going to go home. Maybe next time?”
“Are you coming to the game on Sunday?”
“I’m not sure. I’ll let you know in the next day or so.”
She envelops me in her arms, and I hug her, feeling so grateful to have such a good family. I love all of them, and I know I’m lucky to be a Rivershon.
Even if being a Rivershon is keeping me from following my heart.
We walk out of the arena, and I make my way back the way I came, through the underbelly of the arena.
I pass by the high-end members club for season ticket holders who sit in the first row, with an elaborate buffet and open bar.
The music is cranked up and the place is packed with everyone celebrating the win.
Next, I pass by the media room, where players will speak to the press after the game, and the lounge for wives and girlfriends of players. That’s a space I make sure I stay clear of. I want the WAGs to be able to talk freely, and they might not do that when the coach’s daughter is in the room.
Finally, I’m outside at my car. I plug my phone into the charger and drop it in the console. I use the drive back to my apartment as some time to think. As I drive through Miami, amongst the glittering skyscrapers, views of the bay, and towering palm trees, a realization hits me hard in the heart.
The text from Phoebe has woken me up. I need to put myself out there to make new girlfriends.
That might mean talking to a stranger, introducing myself, doing more activities, but I’ve got to try.
The idea of rejection is scary to me, but I want to have close girlfriends again, and that won’t happen unless I take action.
I want to have dinners out and group chats and people I can talk to on a regular basis.
I want to grab lattes and chat about life.
I want friends in Miami.
And I’m determined to make them.
Of course, I do have one friend in Miami, I think as I pull up to a red light.
Aiden.
I swallow. I have a friend who I want to be more than a friend. I can’t deny my attraction to him. Aiden told me last night he would date me if circumstances were different, and his words nearly broke my heart.
We both want things to be more, but we know they can’t be.
Yet … we can’t stay away from each other.
My mind remains wrapped in thoughts of Aiden, and it stays there for the rest of the ride home.
I can see the wayward blondish-brown hair sweeping over his forehead, covering that scar above his left eyebrow.
How he listens to what I say and the way he put his hand on my back last night.
His smile when he found me in the crowd tonight.
How he playfully smacked his glove against the glass as a greeting.
And how I caught him staring at me during warm-ups …
I pull into my parking space. I’m about to turn off the engine when my phone buzzes in the console. My stupid heart leaps.
Could it be Aiden?
I pick up my phone, and Aiden has indeed texted me back:
Thank you. You know your hockey, so that comment means a lot coming from you.
Is there anything sexier than a man who recognizes a woman’s knowledge of a sport?
I’m about to reply when another text from Aiden drops in:
Where are you right now? Still in the arena?
I text him back:
No, I just pulled into my apartment building. Why?
Aiden Wentworth is typing …
It seems like forever before his response drops in, but finally, it does:
I’m finishing up here, but then I’ve got to go home and eat my post-game meal.
Aiden Wentworth is typing …
Are you hungry?
Oh my God. The butterflies that appeared when I saw him on the ice are back en masse the second I see those words. I excitedly text him back:
That depends. What is the offer?
Aiden Wentworth is typing …
The offer is dinner with me. Tonight.