Chapter 33
TESSA
“And don’t forget these,” Anna adds, passing me a pair of blue-and-white pom-poms so fluffy that they’re practically the size of my head.
I stare at the collection of items now in my hands. “Wow.”
“I’m so envious of you,” Miranda says, her eyes sparkling with genuine excitement. “What I wouldn’t give to experience my first game again. It’s magical.”
Anna nods emphatically. “Seriously. Your first time watching your man play? There’s nothing like it. You’re going to lose your mind.”
“In a good way,” Miranda clarifies.
We’re in the luxury VIP suite with the friends and family of the Crane hockey team, and admittedly, I’m quite excited to see Logan in his element.
“We take the game very seriously. And we’re kind of obsessed with the merch.” Anna smiles.
“I see that,” I say, laughing as I wave the foam finger.
Miranda grins. “Though the most important piece is the jersey. And you’ve got that covered perfectly.”
I glance down at the Cranes hockey jersey I’m wearing—navy blue with white and silver accents, number 91 emblazoned on the front and back. WRIGHT is spelled out in bold letters across my shoulders.
Pride warms my chest, and I can’t stop smiling.
“You look good in it,” Anna says, clearly approving. “Like, really good. Logan’s going to die when he sees you.”
“He already saw me before he left for warm-ups,” I admit. “He almost didn’t make it to the game.”
“I get it.” Miranda laughs. “Miles is the same way.”
Anna nods. “It’s a possessive thing, gets them all hot and bothered.”
I run my hand over the number on my chest, feeling the stitched fabric beneath my fingers. It’s surreal—being in a VIP box at a professional hockey game with a diamond ring on my finger and my fiancé’s name across my back.
I never could have imagined my life looking like this.
“You okay?” Anna asks softly, noticing my expression.
“Yeah,” I say, blinking back unexpected tears. “I’m just... really happy.”
“Good,” Miranda says, squeezing my arm. “You deserve to be happy. Now come on, the best part of the game is about to start.”
“Really?” I question. “It seems early.”
Anna takes a seat next to me. “The stretching happens early, and it’s so…”
Miranda cuts in, and the pair finish the sentence in unison, “Hot.”
The girls weren’t wrong about the warm-ups. Logan’s moves made me long to be back in our condo alone.
Finally, the buzzer sounds, and the Cranes take the ice.
I lean forward in my seat, scanning the players until I find number 91. Logan glides onto the ice with an ease that takes my breath away—fluid, confident, and completely in his element. He moves like the ice was made for him.
And his face. God, his beautiful face. He’s grinning—that wide, boyish smile that I can’t get enough of.
This is Logan in his pure happiness. He looks relaxed and confident.
The weight of the world disappears when he’s on the ice.
Out there, he’s just a hockey player doing the thing he was born to do.
Watching him like this does something to me.
I love him. I knew that already. But watching Logan play hockey—watching him be genuinely, completely happy—makes that love swell to a size I didn’t know was possible.
The first period is electric. The arena is deafening, thousands of fans screaming and stomping their feet, and I find myself on my feet more than I’m sitting.
Miranda and Anna teach me the rules of the game.
Logan has tried, in preparation for the season.
Admittedly, it’s easier to comprehend when I can see it all in action.
Logan scores in the second period—a stunning goal from just inside the blue line that has the entire arena erupting.
I scream so loud my throat burns, jumping up and down and waving my pom-poms like a maniac.
On the ice, Logan raises his stick to the crowd and then—even from this distance—I can tell he’s looking up at our box, looking for me.
I press my hand to my chest and smile, hoping he can see.
Halfway through the third period, the door to the VIP suite opens. A woman steps inside, and the room goes quiet. It’s not dramatic, but there’s definitely a subtle shift, a collective awareness that settles over the group like a change in air pressure.
I notice it immediately. Miranda’s smile freezes for just a second. Anna glances toward the door and then quickly looks away, her expression unreadable.
The woman is tall—easily five ten—with long, dark brown hair that falls in sleek waves past her shoulders.
She’s gorgeous in an effortless way, the kind of beautiful that makes you do a double take without meaning to.
High cheekbones, sharp jaw, full lips. She’s dressed casually but perfectly—fitted dark jeans, a cream-colored cashmere sweater, and ankle boots that probably cost more than my first car would have, if I’d ever owned one.
Something about the way she carries herself—confident, unhurried—makes people move out of her way without her having to ask.
She scans the room with dark eyes, offers a polite but distant smile to a few people, and heads toward the bar.
“Who is that?” I ask Miranda quietly, leaning in.
Miranda follows my gaze and takes a small sip of her champagne. “That’s Kelsey Albright. Coach Albright’s daughter.”
“The coach’s daughter?” I repeat, watching her pour a glass of white wine with practiced nonchalance.
“Mm-hmm.” Miranda’s tone is careful—not quite guarded, but measured. “She hasn’t been around in years. Like years. Nobody really knows what the story is there.”
“What do you mean?”
Miranda shrugs, keeping her voice low. “She just... disappeared. Showed up one day and was gone the next. There was talk, but nobody ever got a straight answer. Even Penny doesn’t know the full story, and Penny knows everything.”
I study Kelsey from across the room. She’s standing alone now, wine in hand, watching the game through the glass with an expression that’s hard to read. There’s something behind her eyes—something guarded, maybe even lonely—that I recognize instantly.
“Huh,” I say quietly, and leave it at that.
Anna catches my eye and gives me a small, knowing look.
The game resumes, and I turn my attention back to the ice.
The final buzzer sounds with the Cranes up 4-2, and the arena explodes.
I’m on my feet, cheering with everyone else, the foam finger waving wildly above my head. Miranda is screaming into Anna’s ear, and Anna is jumping up and down. The energy in the suite is pure, electric joy.
“Season opener, baby!” Miranda shouts, grabbing my arm. “What a way to kick things off!”
“They were incredible,” I say, still breathless. “Logan was incredible.”
“He was on fire tonight,” Anna agrees. “His goal was chef’s kiss.”
I’m still buzzing when we start making our way out of the suite and down toward the arena floor. The plan is to wait for the guys outside the locker room—apparently, it’s tradition for the girlfriends and wives to be there after a win.
But I’m impatient. The adrenaline is still coursing through me, and all I want is to see Logan, to tell him how amazing he was, and to put my arms around him and hold on.
So when I spot him—still in his full gear, helmet tucked under one arm, sweat-dampened hair sticking to his forehead—making his way down the corridor toward the locker room, I don’t wait.
“Logan!” I call out.
He looks up, and the moment he sees me, his whole expression lights up. That boyish grin spreads across his face, and he picks up his pace, closing the distance between us in seconds.
I throw myself into his arms.
He catches me easily, one arm wrapping around my waist and lifting me slightly off the ground. He’s still in his pads, smelling like ice and sweat and that particular post-game adrenaline, and it’s intoxicating. I bury my face in his neck and hold on.
“You were so amazing,” I breathe against his skin. “I’ve never seen anything like it. You were incredible out there.”
“Yeah?” He pulls back just enough to look at me, and his eyes are bright, still riding the high of the win.
“Yeah.” I cup his face in my hands, feeling the rough stubble along his jaw. “I’m so proud of you.”
Something shifts in his expression—something soft and warm and full of love—and he kisses me.
It’s not gentle. It’s not soft or tentative or sweet.
It’s passionate and deep and full of everything we both feel—the adrenaline, the joy, the love that’s been building all night.
His hand slides into my hair, tilting my head back to deepen the kiss, and I melt into him completely, gripping the front of his jersey with both hands.
He tastes like victory and salt and home, and I kiss him back with everything I have, pouring every ounce of love and pride and happiness into it.
When we finally break apart, both of us breathing hard, he rests his forehead against mine.
“I saw you up there,” he murmurs. “Cheering. Waving that ridiculous foam finger.”
I laugh. “It’s not ridiculous.”
“It’s adorable,” he corrects. “You’re adorable.”
“And you’re hot out there,” I say, tracing my thumb along his cheekbone. “I can’t wait for tonight.”
He grins, and I kiss him again—softer this time, slower, savoring it.
At this moment, standing in the corridor outside the locker room with Logan’s arms around me and his name on my back, my past no longer causes me pain.
My entire life has led me here, and I’m so grateful it did.
The dark days and fear seem so distant, replaced by this overwhelming light that engulfs me in love.
I’m so proud of every step I took to overcome, heal, and rebuild.
I was meant to be here, with this man, living this beautiful life. I am exactly where I’m supposed to be.
I’m going to have one hell of a life with Logan at my side.
And I can’t wait for every single second of it.