Chapter 43 On the Glass （Eden）
ON THE GLASS (EDEN)
I’m half-asleep on the couch when the buzzer goes off. My body aches from back-to-back sessions, and the last thing I want is company. Liz is tugging her coat on, bag slung across her shoulder, hair in a messy knot that screams night shift incoming.
“Don’t move, I’ll grab it,” Liz calls, hitting the intercom.
The voice that crackles through jolts me upright. “Is Eden there? It’s Leo.”
Liz swivels toward me, one brow climbing. She presses the button, voice pure silk with a razor edge. “Leo who? The big bouncer? Fist-throwing Neanderthal I’ve been hearing about? Funny, the guy I met at Eden’s clinic looked too easy on the eyes to be a caveman.”
There’s a beat of silence before his laugh rumbles through the speaker, low and unbothered. “Guilty as charged. Now how about you buzz me up so I can grovel to my sister properly?”
Liz’s gaze flicks to me, clearly entertained. She presses the intercom again, tone sweet as poison. “We’ll think about it. Don’t break anything while you stew in your testosterone.”
He chuckles again, unfazed. “Careful with that mouth, sweetheart. I bite back.”
Liz grabs her bag, heading for the door, smirking. “I’ll buzz him in on my way out.” She winks at me as she passes. “And don’t let him off too easy.”
She waves and leaves me alone with the weight of his voice still hanging in the air. My pulse stutters, equal parts dread and exasperation.
A few minutes later, Leo appears in the doorway.
He leans on the frame. “Your roommate’s got spirit.”
I arch a brow. “If you mess with her, she’ll eat you alive. And I’ll hand her the fork.”
He huffs a laugh, nods once, and steps farther in, the door clicking shut behind him.
“How you doing, E?” His voice is low, stripped of swagger. “Missed you.”
It throws me. Leo doesn’t say things like that, not out loud. My throat tightens, but I manage, “I’m fine.”
He shakes his head. “You’re not.” He drops onto the sofa beside me, forearms braced on his knees. “I know about Max.” His jaw works, hard enough to crack teeth. “You should’ve told me.”
My chest twists. “So you spoke to Nate.”
“Yeah.” His face darkens. There’s fury there, regret too. “He filled me in.” He glances over at me, softer now. “And I’m sorry. For the circus Nate and I pulled the other day. For taking that note back then. I was a complete bastard.”
The words land heavy. I stay quiet, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes.
“I knew how you felt about him, and I thought I was protecting you. Truth is, I was being a jealous idiot who didn’t want his little sister growing up. It was uncalled for.”
“And hypocritical,” I add, biting back the wobble in my voice. “Don’t forget that part.”
His mouth lifts, rueful. “Yeah. That too.”
Silence stretches, then he shifts the subject. “The clinic’s looking good. Heard you’ve got half my gym on your books already.”
That coaxes a laugh out of me, shaky but real. “Thanks for sending them my way. It helps.”
“I’ve always tried to help, E,” he says. “Might not’ve been how you needed, but I was looking out. Best I knew how.”
I nod, a lump in my throat. “I know. And I appreciate it.”
He leans back, stretches an arm along the sofa. “So. Max.” His eyes flash dangerously. “Want me to go find him? Break his face?”
The corner of my mouth twitches. “Better hold off on that, champ. Might not even be necessary. Word is, he’s already in deep with some finance firms. The kind of trouble that lasts longer than a smashed face.”
Leo snorts. “Good. Karma’s a bitch.”
We sit for a beat, the air easier now. “I want to be better,” he says finally. “Not just the guy who throws punches when it’s too late. I want to show up before it gets that far. For you.”
I sink back against the cushions, feeling the stone in my gut unclenching. Leo doesn’t do apologies.
“Okay,” I whisper.
“Okay.”
He blows out a breath, scrubbing a hand over his jaw, worn out. Then he glances at me sideways, and the edge in his voice eases. “Long day?”
“The longest,” I admit. “Clients are trickling back, which is good, but it means I’m running myself ragged.
I’m doing therapy sessions, then cramming in paperwork—insurance claims, scheduling, case notes.
I’m running two jobs at once. I don’t have a full roster yet, so there are gaps, but the back-and-forth is killing me.
It’s mentally harder than just being in the room with patients. ”
Leo nods, the corner of his mouth curving. “Sounds like business is picking up, though.”
“Slowly,” I say, sinking deeper into the cushions. “Once I can afford to hire help, it’ll be easier. Right now, I’m just…holding it together.”
“Good thing I showed up, then.” He straightens, all fighter bulk. “I’ve got just the thing.”
I narrow my eyes. “If this involves a punching bag or a protein shake, I’m out.”
“Better.” He hauls me up by the hand. “Shoes, E. We’re going out.”
“I’m not dressed for—”
“Doesn’t matter.” His voice softens. “You look good.”
I cock a brow. “Your grovel needs work, Leo.”
He smirks. “I’m rusty.”
“Clearly. If this is dumb, I’m billing you my hourly.”
“Deal.” He taps the door with two fingers. “Shoes and a coat. Go exactly as you are.”
I grab my parka, shove my feet into sneakers, and point at him. “One wrong move, and I’m bailing.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, opening the door and waving me through. I roll my eyes and follow.
The car ride is all city hum and Leo’s smug silence. He doesn’t so much as glance at me when I press him again, just taps the wheel in rhythm with whatever’s playing on the radio.
“Not even a hint?” I push.
“Patience,” he says, infuriatingly calm.
We snake through Midtown traffic, neon flashing off the windshield. At first, I think we’re headed downtown, maybe to some late-night diner. But then I notice the gridlock, the swarm of jerseys spilling onto sidewalks, the distant rumble of a crowd that sounds way too big for a bar.
I straighten in my seat, suspicion sharpening. “Leo. Where are we?”
His smile doesn’t falter, eyes fixed ahead.
And then the car swings onto Seventh Avenue, the marquee blazing bright in the night.
My mouth goes dry. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
He smirks. “Told you, you’d thank me.”
The Garden hums before we even step inside, the kind of low electric thrum that climbs your spine and settles in your chest. Fans in jerseys stream through the concourse, chatter rising over the smell of popcorn and beer.
By the time we reach our section, my jaw practically unhinges. The seats are right on the glass—prime real estate where families and girlfriends sit, close enough to feel the boards shake.
I stop short. “How the hell did you get these seats?”
Leo shrugs, annoyingly casual. “Turns out I know a guy.”
It only takes a beat for the penny to drop, and my heart kicks. “A guy in pads and a mask? What’d you do, duke it out behind the Zamboni?”
He huffs a laugh, unbothered. “Couple of words. No broken furniture. You approve?”
“I reserve judgment,” I say, though the corner of my mouth betrays me.
I drop into my seat, still rattled, and that’s when Leo reaches into his jacket. He pulls out a folded Defenders jersey—navy and silver, bold white letters across the back: RUSSO #1.
He holds it out with a wry smile. “Time we all admit what this is and say it out loud. Put it on.”
I arch a brow. “Whatever happened to dating in privacy?”
“Save it for Tuesdays,” he shoots back, nudging the jersey into my hands. “Tonight, we get on board.”
The air sticks in my throat. Cameras sweep the crowd, catching bursts of color and faces. I know exactly what this means: no more half-measures.
I hesitate, but Leo nudges it closer. “He’s your guy, Eden. Took me too long to admit it. I’m sorry for standing in the way.” His grin edges back in. “And fine, I owe you any babysitting you want someday. But only if you wear it.”
“Jumping several milestones there, aren’t you?” I roll my eyes, but my hands are shaking as I take the jersey. For a long second, I just stare, then I pull it over my clothes. The polyester slides down, strange and perfect all at once.
The crowd around us notices immediately. A whistle, a couple cheers, a fan pointing me out to his buddy. The buzz spreads quickly. A few rows up, someone calls, “Russo’s girl!”
Heat rushes to my face, but I lift my chin.
On the ice, the Defenders skate out for warm-ups. Nate glides past us, drops into his stance, looks up at our pane. He nods at Leo, then finds me. A wide grin breaks across his face. He taps his glove to his chest, presses it to the glass, and moves to the crease.
His teammates catch on quickly. Sticks rattle against the boards, Finn shoves him with a grin, Wesley bangs his glove against the glass in front of me. The crowd surges as if everyone felt the change.
The anthem finishes, the puck drops, and the Garden erupts. The boards thud under the hits; the glass buzzes against my knees.
Nate is razor sharp from the first shot, snapping pucks out of the air, dropping into a clean butterfly, pushing rebounds into safe corners. Every save tightens him, and every time he controls the puck the crowd roars.
I can hear his skates carve the ice, the puck striking pads, the terse shouts between teammates. He’s a wall—and he’s mine.
Halfway through the first, an opposing winger slices free on a clean rush. For a second, the whole arena holds its breath.
Nate explodes across the crease, pad stacked, glove out. He plucks the puck away with inches to spare.
The place detonates. Fans hammer the boards, chanting his name.
Leo claps beside me until the man next to us startles. He squeezes my shoulder and mutters, “Told you. Best in the league when he’s locked in.”
And he’s locked in because of me.
The game pushes on. Bodies crash, whistles come and go, the clock eats minutes. Nate drinks that tension and feeds off it, every time he looks up and finds me through the mask.
When the horn blows on a Defenders win my throat is raw, my palms ache from clapping, and my chest is full in a way I can’t ignore.
The horn still echoes when Leo tugs at my sleeve. “Come on. We’re not done.”
I give him a look, half spent, half curious. “Where exactly do you think you’re dragging me?”
He digs into his pocket and pulls out two lanyards. Glossy Defenders logos dangle on plastic badges. Family.
My brows shoot up. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.” He flashes a grin that’s full of smug satisfaction. “Perks of having a best buddy in pads and a mask.”
Before I can argue, Leo is steering me past security and down a stairwell that smells of cold concrete and metal. The roar of the Garden fades into the hum of compressors and the slap of wet skates on rubber flooring.
And then I see him. Fresh off the ice, jersey plastered to his pads, hair damp, Nate’s eyes are bright with the win, and with me. The grin he throws could power the whole damn city.
I tear free from Leo, sprint the last steps, and leap into his arms. He doesn’t hesitate, dropping his mask and stick with a clatter, catching me and hauling me up. My legs lock around his waist, his hands gripping my thighs.
“Easy, Trouble,” he rasps, laughing into my neck.
“You played like you had something to prove,” I manage, voice raw from screaming my lungs out in the stands.
His eyes blaze. “Had someone to play for.”
The tears hit before I even know they’re coming. He kisses them away, one by one, slow and steady, the edge in him softening only for me.
“I love you, Nate Russo,” I choke out. “I don’t care what anyone says, what clients I lose, or who raises an eyebrow. All I want is you. My boyfriend.”
Something fierce and molten sparks in his gaze. His grin curves, dangerous and delighted. “Boyfriend, huh?” His voice drops, cocky and reverent all at once. “Say that again.”
“My boyfriend,” I whisper against his mouth.
He kisses me so hard, I almost forget we’re in a tunnel full of players and staff. When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests on mine. “Good. Because I love you, Eden Carver. Always have. Always will. And I’ve been dying to hear you say it.”
The world tilts, steadies, roots deep. He’s mine. Finally.
Behind us, a chorus erupts. Sticks are rattling, helmets knocking together.
“Yo, Eden, are clinic hours open?” Wesley calls, grinning like a kid who just found candy.
“My hamstrings are crying,” Adam chimes in. “Don’t play favorites now.”
Another guy jerks his chin at the name stretched across my chest. “Strong branding, Carver. Team discount, or just goalie exclusives?”
“Full price,” Nate fires back, deadpan. “Priority to whoever shuts up first.”
That cracks them up. A rookie taps Leo’s arm on his way past. “You taking appointments too, champ? My ribs are toast. Could use a boxer’s massage. I hear they’re…excruciating.”
A ripple of laughter rolls down the line, a couple of guys throwing shadow jabs in Leo’s direction.
Finn claps Leo’s back, grinning. “Good to see you in the tunnel, Carver. About time you showed. Guess Russo’s officially off the market now. Fan girls are gonna cry.”
“They’ll live.” Nate doesn’t miss a beat, smug as sin.
Coach looms behind the crew, rumbling. “Alright, break it up. We’ll book slots. Wait your turn.”
“Add me first,” Adam fires back, and the hallway erupts again with laughter, sticks thumping the wall, voices echoing.
Then, finally, it’s just us. Leo, Nate, and me.
Nate eases me down but keeps a hand on my waist. Leo offers his hand, solid and brief. “Hell of a game, Russo.” His mouth quirks. “I’d stick around to celebrate, but I’m guessing you two have…catching up to do. We’ll save our beer run for another night?”
“Smart man.” Nate smirks, not even looking away from me.
Leo lifts his phone, snapping a picture before I can stop him—me grinning like a fool, Nate’s hand still claiming me. “Perfect. Mama Carver and Mama Russo will be thrilled their meddling finally paid off and Russo-Carver grandbabies are in the making.”
I groan, swatting at him, cheeks on fire. “Seriously?”
He laughs easily, pocketing the phone. “Don’t worry, baby sis. I’ll make sure they know it was my charm and diplomacy that sealed the deal, not their scheming.” With a mock salute, he heads down the hall, his laughter trailing behind him.
Nate leans close, voice a growl against my ear. “Give me ten minutes.”
Heat sparks low in my belly. I meet his gaze, daring. “Make it nine.