Chapter Twenty
Hockey Isn’t Stupid (Apparently)
Chase
We won. Barely. But a win’s a win.
I tug off my jersey, my muscles still buzzing from the adrenaline rush of the game, and I can’t stop thinking about one very specific moment—no, not my goal in the second period, though yeah, that was nice. Not even my hit on Garcia that sent him spinning like a top.
Nope.
The highlight of the night?
Scarlett Calloway—banging on the glass like she was trying to will the puck into the net. Screaming at the refs like she was personally offended by their calls, standing up from her seat, cheering, and absolutely losing her mind when we scored the game-winner in overtime.
I swear, I almost forgot to skate back to the bench. I was too busy staring.
I didn’t expect her to come. I mean, yeah, Lucy said she invited her, but I didn’t think she’d actually show up. And if she did, I figured she’d sit quietly in the corner, maybe roll her eyes through the whole thing.
What I got?
A full-throttle, trash-talking, glass-pounding maniac in jeans and a sweater.
I’m a little scared of her. A little impressed. And a whole lot turned on.
“Yo, Remington,” Tyler calls from across the room, tossing a roll of tape at me. “Earth to lover boy. You gonna shower or just stand there like you’re writing her name in your diary?”
“Shut up,” I mutter, catching the tape and chucking it right back at his head.
He laughs and ducks, still grinning like an idiot. “She looked good tonight.”
“I didn’t notice.”
“Sure,” he says, heading for the showers. “Tell that to the drool on your chin.”
I ignore him and grab a towel, but I’m still thinking about her. She did look good; he’s right. Her hair was loose and wavy. And I’m still picturing the flush in her cheeks, the wild energy in her eyes. Like this wasn’t just a game to her—it was something she actually cared about.
So the woman who doesn’t believe in happy endings believes in power plays, high-sticking penalties, and yelling at professional athletes like they can hear her from section 102.
And I don’t know what that means yet.
But damn, I want to find out.
After, we hit up our usual post-game spot—Manny’s, a low-key Mexican place a few blocks from the arena. It’s loud, full of neon signs, and always smells like fried heaven.
Dash lounges in the booth across from me, already halfway through his first basket of chips. Tyler drops in next to him, still sweating from the game, and Will plops down beside me with a thud and a groan like the eighty-year-old man he insists he’s becoming at twenty-nine.
“Cheers to not blowing that lead in the third,” Tyler says, holding up his soda like it’s champagne.
“Barely,” Dash mutters. “If Chase hadn’t remembered how to shoot, we’d be crying into our queso right now.”
I smirk and steal a chip. “If I had a dollar for every time I saved your ass—”
“You’d still be an overpaid winger with a bad attitude,” Will deadpans.
Laughter rolls around the table.
The energy’s good tonight. Easy. Like we’re riding the high of a win, even if it was by the skin of our teeth.
But my phone buzzes, and suddenly, the game, the food, the guys—it all fades a little.
Because the name lighting up my screen?
Scarlett.
I sit up straighter, swipe the notification, and open the message.
Scarlett: Okay, so maybe hockey’s not completely stupid. You guys looked good out there. It’s so fast-paced and more exciting than I realized.
I feel my grin before I can stop it.
Dash catches the look. “You sexting already? Damn, Remington, that was fast even for you.”
I ignore him, thumbs moving quickly.
Me: Tell that to the ref you screamed at in the third. Pretty sure you gave him a complex.
She types back immediately.
Scarlett: He DESERVED IT. Worst call I’ve seen in my life.
I can’t stop smiling like an idiot. I probably look like I just fell in love with my burrito.
“You texting your mom or your soulmate?” Tyler asks, stealing my queso.
“Neither,” I say, trying to sound casual. “Just a friend.”
“Sure,” Will mutters. “The same ‘friend’ who looked like she wanted to maul you through the glass tonight.”
“I think she wanted to maul the ref,” I say, taking another bite. “But I wouldn’t have minded.”
That earns a round of whistles and fake swooning from the table.
“She’s got you good,” Dash says, shaking his head. “I give it a week before you’re writing poetry in the locker room.”
I roll my eyes but keep my phone in my lap. Her texts come quickly, her commentary unfiltered, and every time my screen lights up, it’s like a shot of adrenaline straight to the chest.
And the thing is—I’ve had a lot of women flirt with me. A lot of numbers handed over, a lot of dates, a lot of “oh my God, you’re Chase Remington” reactions.
But none of them ever banged on the glass and screamed at a ref, then turned around and told me I was obnoxious.
She’s different.
And I don’t know where this is going yet.
But I know one thing—I’m not ready for the night to end.
Me: Hope you didn’t pull anything yelling at the refs tonight.
Scarlett: I’m just fine, I can assure you.
At the risk of the guys completely confiscating my phone, I fire off one last text before pocketing it.
Me: Not gonna lie, you were kind of terrifying in the best way.
After dinner, I head home, but there’s still nothing from Scarlett. I wonder if I said something to annoy her—probably.
I take Rip out and check my phone again while he does his business.
Still nothing.
It’s fine. I lie to myself.
I push the door open and step into the quiet, dark condo. Rip trots in ahead of me, nails tapping across the hardwood like he owns the place. Which, to be fair, he probably does.
I drop my keys into the dish by the door and kick off my shoes, tugging my hoodie over my head as I head toward the kitchen.
The fridge light glows way too bright when I open it, but I ignore it and grab a bottle of water.
Rip watches me expectantly like he’s waiting for something exciting to happen.
“Sorry, bud,” I murmur, twisting the cap off. “No late-night snacks tonight. We’re old and responsible now.”
He huffs like he doesn’t believe me for a second.
I make my way down the hall, and Rip trots along behind me, already ahead of me in the bedroom, curling up in his usual spot—the bottom left corner of the bed, like clockwork.
I toss the covers back and sink into the mattress, stretching out with a sigh. I’m tired. I should be asleep in minutes.
But my brain has other plans.
I scroll for a second on my phone—checking the usual. Team group chat blowing up about the game. A video someone posted of that power play we nailed in the second period. A meme from Dash that makes me grin and shake my head.
Then a notification. A new text pops up.
Scarlett: So what, is that normal hockey fan behavior?
I grin instantly, thumb flying.
Me: 100%. You’re basically eligible for season tickets now. Also, impressive trash talk. ‘You absolute walking penalty’ is a new personal favorite.
She replies so fast it’s like she was waiting for me to say something.
Scarlett: He elbowed your teammate in the face and didn’t even get a whistle. I was morally obligated to say something. Also, don’t think I didn’t see your little smirk when I screamed “open your eyes, ref!”
Me: I plead the fifth. But… you looked good out there, Calloway. If we win the next game, you might have to let me buy you a drink.
The typing dots bounce for a beat.
Scarlett: You already bought me a drink—the margarita after book club, remember?
I lean my head back against the headboard, grinning into the dark like a total idiot. Man, she’s fun. Sharp, sarcastic, impossible to ignore.
I stare at her last text for a second too long.
Screw it.
I hit call.
It rings once.
Twice.
“Seriously?” she answers, not even a hello. “You’re calling me now?”
Her voice is a little breathless, like I surprised her. Like she didn’t expect me to actually do it.
“You said you might let me buy you a drink. Wanted to lock it in before you changed your mind.”
She exhales. “That’s not how texting works, Remington.”
“I don’t like rules,” I say, slouching deeper into my bed. “Besides, you answered. So either you were curious or you just really needed a new excuse to yell at me.”
She doesn’t say anything.
I smile. “You had fun tonight.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then—quietly—she says, “Okay. I had fun.”
I close my eyes. Let it sink in.
“I’m glad I went,” she adds, almost begrudgingly. “I still think you’re cocky as hell, but… it was kind of great seeing you do what you’re meant to do.”
That one hits me harder than I expect.
“Home?” she asks, somehow knowing.
“Yeah.”
“Okay, well…” She trails off. “Don’t sprain anything watching game replays tonight.”
I huff a laugh. “Try not to yell yourself hoarse watching film breakdowns of my penalty kill.”
She clicks her tongue. “No promises.”
I don’t want to hang up.
But I also don’t want to tug too hard at whatever fragile thing is building between us.
“Night, Scarlett.”
Pause. “Night, Chase.”
I set my phone down and stare at the ceiling.
She’s still a pain in the ass. Still sarcastic, sharp, and way too sure of herself.
But somehow, that’s become one of my favorite things about her.
I turn over and place one hand on Rip’s back as he lets out a sleepy sigh.
“I’m screwed, huh?” I mutter.
Rip doesn’t answer—just shifts a little closer.
I close my eyes and let the silence take over.
And for the first time in a while, falling asleep doesn’t feel so hard.