7. Chapter 7
Chapter seven
~JESSICA~
I don’t know why arenas always look colder than they feel.
Maybe it’s because they’re packed, or maybe it’s the warmth spreading through me at the thought of seeing him again.
I haven’t seen Dom since the magazine photoshoot, and when I didn’t hear from anyone for a couple of days, I assumed it was over.
Until Tinnie called yesterday to say my presence was needed at tonight’s game, sent me tickets, Melody’s number, and… here I am.
We settle by the glass, and my stomach is full of bees—angry, vicious ones. Melody plops down beside me, sipping her soda. Warmups are happening, and everyone around us is already shouting .
I wipe my palms on my pants and sit closer to Melody. My gaze immediately drifts to the ice and sweeps, searching for Dominic.
I don’t know if it’s his size or the huge C on his jersey, but I spot him instantly, and my stomach does a somersault. He’s a force even in warmups.
And I haven’t spoken to him since we fought.
My chest caves in a little—what always happens when I go back to that parking lot.
I force a breath out. The guilt from the interview still sits on my tongue.
I didn’t mean to upset him. If someone made up a fantasy story about me, I’d feel weird too.
But I didn’t say anything bad. It was all cute, romantic, and soft—things he very clearly is not.
“I’m always so nervous at these games,” Melody says, nudging me.
“Me too,” I reply, eyes glued to her brother.
“This is your second one,” she says.
I force a laugh. “It makes it even worse,” I say, glancing at her and then back to the ice. “Especially when—” I pause. “Does your brother stay upset for long?”
“Depends, why?” Melody raises an eyebrow .
I swallow, my eyes flicking back to Dom, who’s talking to numbers 7, 13, and 21.
How do I explain this? Does she even know about the… circumstances?
I pick the safest truth. “We had… a disagreement.”
“Ah. That explains why he’s been acting like a scarecrow these past few days.”
“So he holds grudges.” Wonderful.
“Look,” she says, scooting closer so I can hear over the noise, “Dom is impossible when he doesn’t get his way.
” She waves a hand for emphasis. “He’s stubborn.
He thinks he’s right even when he isn’t.
And when you push back or try to tell him what to do?
” She shrugs. “It’s like trying to talk the sun out of shining. You can’t.”
“That seems unhealthy for both parties.” I wince.
“It is. But,” Melody adds, turning serious, “he doesn’t mean any harm. He’s used to getting his way, but eventually he does listen, and he does compromise.”
My eyes drift back to the ice.
Dom skates past our section and taps the glass in front of us once in recognition. My heart kicks at the sight of him up close. Melody waves, and I try to do the same in case people are watching. He leans into a turn, eyes focused as if the world depends on it.
God, he’s handsome. And extremely insufferable.
I catch myself exhaling shakily.
“Talk to him after he wins,” Melody says, nudging me again.
“So sure of him,” I laugh.
“He’s the youngest captain in the league to ever win the Stanley Cup.” She grins. “Of course I’m sure of him.”
Melody really loves her brother. She sees him in a way few probably do.
Dom turns his head and sweeps his gaze across the arena until it hits mine, and my body lights up with hot excitement. A flicker passes over his face before he tilts his head and skates off.
Ten minutes into the game, I’m convinced hockey was invented by a psychopath.
I don’t understand any of it. There’s a puck, people chase it, and they hit each other for it.
Sometimes they hit each other without the puck, which I’m apparently “not supposed to freak out about.” Whoever said that lied, because I’m freaking out about everything.
“Don’t worry,” Melody leans forward. “This is normal.”
Nothing happening on the ice feels normal. Someone slams into someone else at full speed, and they just get up and keep going. Dominic is everywhere—skating like a black streak of aggression and danger. Not an ounce of hesitation.
I can’t look away.
The game moves so fast I can barely keep up. People shout “forecheck,” “cycle it,” “dump it,” and none of it registers. My stomach’s been in my throat since puck drop. Maybe it’s because it’s only Dom I see, even during the short breaks he’s forced to take.
“Moreal leading the first shift! Dolphins coming in hot!” the announcer booms.
Melody yells something about a line change and a power play, but it’s all foreign. Dom skates near the corner boards, body angled, completely focused on whatever part of the game he runs like a tyrant .
A player from the opposing team shifts direction—not toward the puck, but toward Dom, who doesn’t have it.
I stand without meaning to.
“Melody, what—”
The other player slams into the side of Dom’s knee and hip with full force. There’s no angle, no subtlety, no puck anywhere near them. The sound is sickening. The other guy flies from the collision while Dom goes down on one knee with a grunt.
The arena erupts with gasps, curses, screams.
“THAT’S INTERFERENCE! THAT’S INTERFERENCE ON MOREAL!” the announcer screams. “Completely away from the puck—and it looked like he caught him right in the knee!”
My body moves before my brain. “Oh my God,” I whisper, stumbling to the glass, palms slamming it. “Get up… please get up.”
Players circle, whistles shriek as refs rush in. The Dolphins player is doubled over, gasping, clearly hurt too.
“The officials are calling this—this could be a major penalty!”
The arena becomes a beehive of noise, fans pounding on the glass.
“Hey,” Melody grabs my arm gently. “He’s fine. Trust me.”
“He’s down!” I shoot back. “He didn’t even see it coming!”
“He’s taken worse. It takes more than that to hurt him,” she says, squeezing my arm. “Look.”
My throat tightens as I turn back.
Dom pushes himself up slowly, one gloved hand braced on his knee. Then he rises—six-foot-seven with skates—pure, controlled rage. And looks up. Right at me. Our eyes lock through the glass. He sees me—pressed against it, panicked, silently begging him to be okay.
He straightens, rolls his shoulders, tests his weight, then turns toward the man who hit him. The temperature drops ten degrees.
“Oh shit,” Melody breathes.
Dom starts skating.
“Moreal is going after him—and here we go!”
He reaches him in three strides, fists gripping the front of his jersey, yanking him in.
They collide hard; Dom starts throwing punches, one after another.
The crowd erupts—half gasps, half feral cheers.
The refs dive in, but Dom’s not done. It takes two linesmen and a couple of teammates to drag him off.
For one sharp, electrifying second, he looks up again. Finds me. Pins me with that look.
“We’ve got a major penalty on the hit—looks like kneeing—and a game misconduct for Carlson! Moreal will get five for fighting!”
The arena is chaos after the win. The Dolphins’ player was ejected for misconduct, and Dominic got five minutes for fighting. Players bang sticks, fans chant his name, reporters swarm, bright lights move like search beams.
When the reporters finally peel away, I have a clear line to him. I don’t think about cameras. I weave through the crowd, barely hearing anyone, eyes locked on the one person I need .
He’s still in most of his gear—skates, pads, jersey, gloves tucked under an arm. He’s already tall, but with skates on, he’s a walking skyscraper.
I reach him as he turns away from the cameras, and before I can second-guess myself, I wrap my arms around him. Or try to. I barely reach his chest. My cheek presses against the hard padding of his torso, his jersey rough against my skin, and for a moment he goes rigid.
His scent wraps around me—soap, clean sweat, adrenaline.
“Are you okay?” I ask, breathless against his chest.
Dom doesn’t answer immediately. Slowly, his hands lift to my waist. It’s not like before. One large hand wraps around my waist as if he’s unsure whether he’s allowed to touch me after our argument.
When I pull back to look at him, his brows are drawn, his lips slightly parted, eyes searching my face. I swallow, heat flooding my cheeks.
“Stop staring at me and tell me if you’re okay.”
He doesn’t stop staring; if anything, he stares harder, breaking me down as if looking for something he doesn’t trust. Something unravels in his expression—a softness he tries to hide.
He hooks two fingers under my chin, making my heart jump and tilting my face up to meet his.
“Yeah,” he says. “I’m okay.” His voice is low and rough, meant only for me.
His eyes briefly drift to my mouth.
Before he can say more, a reporter’s voice slices the moment. “Captain Moreal! Quick comment before you head to the locker room?”
“Find Tinnie.” Dominic says, brushing his thumb once under my chin. Then steps toward the reporter with that commanding presence that makes people gravitate to him.
The second the club doors swing open, the bass punches my chest. Lights strobe pink and blue across the ceiling. Bodies move in a giant, sweaty wave. Melody has a death grip on my hand, probably afraid I’ll get swallowed by Miami nightlife and never be seen again. Honestly? Fair .
Security ropes the entrance, and Melody tugs me deeper into the club, weaving through clusters of people. I lean in so she can hear me over the music. “Tinnie really undersold this place,” I shout.
“You okay?” Melody glances back, smiling.
“Yeah,” I yell. She showed up at my place with a driver exactly when Tinnie said, two hours after the game. She’s been holding my hand ever since—not patronizing, but like she’s adopting me. She’s nice. Too nice, especially when I think about who her brother is.