Chapter Seven
Bella
"I can't believe you've never been to a hockey game," Riley says for approximately the fifteenth time as we make our way through the crowd outside Key Arena. "You're dating the captain of the team, Bella. The captain."
"Well, you do sports now. Because girlfriend duties include cheering for your boyfriend while he beats the crap out of people on ice."
"It's not beating the crap out of people. It's strategic athletic competition."
Riley snorts. "You sound like you've been practicing that explanation."
She's not wrong. Ever since Ryan mentioned that ECU was playing Western Washington tonight and that he'd love to see me in the stands, I've been researching hockey rules and terminology like I'm cramming for a final exam.
I've watched YouTube videos about offsides and power plays, memorized the basic penalties, and learned the difference between a slap shot and a wrist shot.
What I haven't figured out is how to reconcile the intellectual Ryan who discusses economic theory with surprising insight with the physical Ryan who apparently spends his evenings body-checking college students into submission.
"There he is," Riley says, pointing toward the ice where the ECU team is warming up. "Number twelve."
I follow her gaze and spot Ryan immediately.
Even among a group of large, athletically gifted men, he stands out—taller than most, broader through the shoulders, moving across the ice with the kind of fluid grace that makes everything look effortless.
He's wearing full gear, his face partially hidden by his helmet, but I can still recognize the confident way he carries himself.
The arena lights dim and the announcer's voice booms across the crowd, introducing the starting lineups. When Ryan's name is called, the noise level increases dramatically, and I feel a surprising flutter of pride in my chest.
The game starts with a violence and intensity that I'm completely unprepared for.
I've seen hockey on television, but being here in person is an entirely different experience.
The sound of skates cutting ice, the crack of stick against puck, the thunderous impact of players hitting the boards—it's all much faster and more physical than I expected.
"Is it always like this?" I ask Riley during a brief break in play.
"Like what?"
"So... aggressive."
"Girl, this is nothing. Wait until someone checks Ryan into the boards. Then you'll see aggressive."
As if summoned by her words, a Western Washington player lines Ryan up for exactly that kind of hit. I watch in horror as this stranger deliberately targets Ryan, slamming into him with enough force to rattle the glass behind the goal.
"Is that legal?" I demand, half-rising from my seat.
"Totally legal," Riley says, pulling me back down. "And look—Ryan's fine."
She's right. Ryan pops back up immediately, seemingly unfazed by the collision, and I realize that this is just part of the game for him.
The intellectual, thoughtful man who brings me macarons and discusses market theory with genuine interest also willingly participates in what essentially amounts to controlled violence on ice.
It's confusing and oddly attractive in a way I don't entirely understand.
The second period is even more intense than the first. Ryan scores a goal—a beautiful wrist shot that goes top shelf, whatever that means—and the entire arena erupts.
When he celebrates, he looks up into the stands and points directly at me, and I feel my face heat up under the attention of several thousand hockey fans.
"Oh my god," Riley shrieks in my ear. "He just dedicated his goal to you! That's like the most romantic thing that's ever happened at a sporting event!"
I wave at Ryan, trying to look appropriately appreciative, but mostly I'm processing the fact that he just made our fake relationship very publicly real. Everyone in this arena now thinks I'm the girl that Ryan O'Sullivan cares enough about to acknowledge after scoring.
"Bella?"
I turn to find a girl I don't recognize standing in the aisle next to our seats. She's blonde, gorgeous, and wearing a hockey jersey that's been strategically modified to show significantly more skin than mine.
"Yes?"
"I'm Jessica. I'm friends with some of the guys on the team." Her smile is perfectly friendly and completely predatory. "I just wanted to introduce myself since you're new to the hockey scene."
"Nice to meet you."
"It's so sweet that Ryan's dating someone from outside the usual crowd," Jessica continues, her tone suggesting that 'sweet' is not necessarily a compliment.
"I mean, usually hockey players stick with girls who understand the lifestyle, you know?
The travel, the pressure, the kind of attention that comes with dating an athlete. "
Riley shifts beside me, clearly recognizing a territorial challenge when she sees one. "Bella understands plenty."
"Oh, I'm sure she does. It's just that hockey relationships can be... complicated. There are expectations, social dynamics that might not be obvious to someone who doesn't follow the sport." Jessica's smile sharpens. "I'd hate for anyone to get in over their head."
The threat is delivered so sweetly that it takes me a moment to process it. Jessica is essentially telling me that I don't belong in Ryan's world and that I should back off before I embarrass myself.
"Thanks for the concern," I say evenly. "But I think I can handle whatever complications come up."
"I'm sure you can. Just remember that hockey players have... options. And Ryan's always been popular with women who appreciate athletic achievement."
With that parting shot, Jessica disappears back into the crowd, leaving me feeling like I just survived some kind of social combat that I wasn't prepared for.
"What the hell was that about?" Riley demands.
"I think I just got my first taste of hockey girlfriend politics."
"Well, screw her. You're smarter, classier, and actually dating Ryan instead of just hoping to." Riley pauses. "Although, for the record, she's not wrong about the attention thing. Dating the captain of the hockey team means dealing with a lot of girls who think they could do it better."
The third period is a blur of penalties, near-misses, and increasingly aggressive play. ECU wins 4-2, with Ryan picking up two assists in addition to his goal, and the entire arena celebrates like we just won the Stanley Cup instead of a regular season college game.
After the game, I wait outside the locker room with a group of other girlfriends, teammates' families, and random fans hoping for autographs.
The social hierarchy is immediately apparent—there are clear divisions between long-term girlfriends, casual hookups, and hockey groupies, and I'm not entirely sure which category I fit into.
When Ryan finally emerges, his hair damp from the shower and his face lit up with the kind of happiness that comes from winning, he spots me immediately and his expression shifts into something warmer and more personal.
"You came," he says, reaching me in three strides and lifting me off my feet in a hug that probably looks more romantic than it is practical.
"Of course I came. You invited me."
"I know, but..." He sets me down but keeps his hands on my waist. "Hockey isn't really your thing. I wasn't sure you'd want to spend two and a half hours watching me get checked into the boards."
"It was educational," I tell him. "I learned a lot about strategic thinking under pressure."
Ryan's grin widens. "Of course you did."
Standing there in the hallway outside the ECU locker room, surrounded by the sounds of celebration and the lingering energy of competition, I realize something important.
Ryan O'Sullivan isn't two different people—the intellectual who discusses market theory and the athlete who scores goals under pressure.
He's one person who approaches everything with the same intelligence and strategic thinking, whether he's on the ice or in my apartment working through supply and demand curves.
"So," Ryan says, "what did you think? Of your first hockey game?"
"I think," I say carefully, "that I understand you better now."
"Good better or concerning better?"
"Good better. Definitely good better."
Ryan's smile is bright enough to power the entire arena. "Want to grab dinner? I know a place that serves food that doesn't come from a concession stand."
"I'd like that."
I don’t have to say anything to Riley. She gives me the approval nod and goes her own way. Tomorrow she’ll blow up my phone with texts. Most of which I won’t answer.
As we walk out of Key Arena together, Ryan's arm is around my shoulders as his teammates call good-natured insults about him being whipped. It’s then that I realize that tonight changed something fundamental about how I see our arrangement.
Watching Ryan in his element, seeing the respect his teammates have for him, experiencing the attention that comes with being his girlfriend—it all feels more real than I expected.
And that's either the best thing that could happen to our fake relationship, or the most dangerous.