Chapter Twenty-Four
Remy
A few months have passed by the next time I walk into the Venom arena. This time, I’m on the family suite level, and I realize two things immediately.
One: Hockey WAGs travel in packs.
And two: Apparently, I’ve been absorbed into one against my will.
“Finally,” Sofia says dramatically the moment she spots me. “Do you know how exhausting it’s been listening to these people gossip about your pregnancy without you here to defend yourself?”
“I was not gossiping,” Vivian says primly from her seat near the glass. “I was observing.”
“You literally said there was morning sickness, Sofia,” Knova deadpans.
“There was.” She flips her hair over one shoulder.
“There was definitely nausea on the van ride over,” Dot agrees while stealing popcorn from a giant basket between the seats.
Minerva lifts her wine glass toward me. “Welcome to the chaos.”
Heat immediately crawls up my neck.
I’m suddenly very aware of the fact that I’m no longer here as Owen’s PR rep. No clipboard. No carefully measured professional distance. No excuse to pretend I’m only paying attention to him because it’s my job.
Tonight, I’m here for Owen Rourke, Venom starting goalie.
Which honestly feels more vulnerable than public speaking.
“You guys realize he probably thinks you’re talking about him, right?” I ask.
“Excellent,” Sofia says. “Then maybe he’ll finally stop glaring at reporters like he’s deciding where to bury the bodies.”
I laugh before I can stop myself.
That earns me several deeply knowing looks.
“Oh, she’s gone,” Knova announces sadly to the group. “Absolutely gone.”
“I’m sitting right here.”
Dot pats my arm sympathetically. “It’s okay. We’ve all had the ‘oh, no, I accidentally fell in love with a hockey player’ experience.”
Knova snorts into her drink. “Mine came with property damage.”
“That’s because Viktor thinks emotional regulation is a government conspiracy,” Sofia says.
Below us, the teams begin filtering onto the ice for warm-ups. The arena lights gleam against fresh-cut skate lines while pucks crack sharply off sticks in rapid succession.
And when Owen steps onto the ice, my stomach drops. What hits me first isn’t how intimidating he looks. It’s how calm he looks. Focused and steady in a way I haven’t seen since before everything detonated.
He glides backward into the crease during warmups, tapping each post with practiced precision before settling into position. The movement is so automatic that it almost looks ritualistic.
“He’s been weirdly zen since the suspension,” Dot says beside me. “Which honestly freaked Cam out more than if Owen had started punching drywall.”
“That’s because goalies are all serial killers emotionally,” Knova says. “They just channel it into sports.”
“Accurate,” Vivian agrees. “My dad is a goalie. Can confirm.”
A shot rockets toward the net during warmups, and Owen snags it cleanly out of the air with his glove.
The women around me barely react. I, meanwhile, nearly ascend into the ceiling. God, watching him now feels different. Before, I was always analyzing. Monitoring. Looking for problems before they escalated.
Now I just… watch him.
And somehow that feels infinitely more dangerous.
Down on the ice, Viktor skates past the crease and smacks Owen’s pads with his stick. Owen’s lips move, and Viktor laughs in response.
The affection between the players hits me unexpectedly hard because nobody here looks afraid of Owen. Not one of them. They trust him. Love him, even.
And suddenly, I realize how badly I needed to see that with my own eyes.
As if he feels me looking at him, Owen lifts his head toward the suite level, and our eyes meet instantly. Every bit of his focus shifts. It’s subtle enough that most people probably wouldn’t notice it. His shoulders loosen slightly. The severe line of his mouth softens.
By the middle of the first period, butterflies settle in my stomach. I’m nervous. Not “handler” nervous. Not “please don’t let a player say something deeply stupid to the media” nervous.
Personally nervous.
Every time the puck crosses center ice, my stomach tightens.
Beside me, Sofia calmly steals another handful of popcorn. “You’re doing the thing.”
I glance at her. “What thing?”
“The goalie-girlfriend stress thing.”
“I’m not his girlfriend.”
All five women look at me. Dot actually snorts.
“Remy,” Minerva says gently, “you’re sitting in family seating wearing his hoodie.”
I look down automatically.
Right.
Okay, in my defense, the hoodie situation happened organically.
Mostly.
Heat crawls up my neck while Vivian leans closer. “Just wait until the playoffs. I once stress-ate an entire charcuterie board during overtime.”
“That was one period,” Knova says.
“It was a stressful period.”
Down on the ice, Owen settles deeper into his crease while Detroit cycles the puck high along the boards. The movement is fast and aggressive now, their forwards trying to screen traffic in front of the net.
My pulse spikes immediately, but Owen remains completely calm. That’s the thing mesmerizing me tonight. Not the saves themselves. The steadiness.
A Detroit forward crashes hard toward the crease, trying to jam home a rebound, and before I can fully panic, Viktor absolutely levels him into the boards.
The crowd erupts.
“So romantic,” Knova says dryly. “Maybe I’ll ask him to repeat that move on me later. Straight into the mattress.”
“Hockey men express affection through light assault,” Minerva agrees. “I should develop a spreadsheet.”
Knight immediately skates over to back Viktor up because apparently, emotional support among hockey players means preparing to collectively commit felonies at a moment’s notice.
Despite myself, I laugh.
That’s the bigger difference tonight. I’m not watching Owen, waiting for him to lose control. I’m watching him trust himself.
The realization settles heavily into my chest.
Because after everything that happened, after all the fear and shame and therapy conversations and emotional wreckage, he’s still here. Still standing in front of eighteen thousand screaming people. Still doing the thing he loves most in the world.
And he’s good at it.
God, he’s good.
The puck snaps suddenly across the slot to a wide-open shooter, and the entire arena rises in anticipation. Owen slides laterally across the crease with terrifying speed and gloves the shot clean out of the air.
The crowd groans loudly.
Meanwhile, I physically clutch Sofia’s arm hard enough that she yelps. “Oh, my God.”
“Yup. You’re one of us now,” Vivian says knowingly. “You have it.”
“What?”
“The goalie girlfriend panic.”
“I’m not—”
Another huge save from Owen cuts me off mid-denial. This time, I jump to my feet instinctively.
“So we’re fully abandoning the lie now?” Dot asks.
I ignore her completely because down on the ice, Owen lifts his mask briefly during the whistle, breathing hard while Tristan pounds his stick excitedly against the boards beside the bench.
And then Owen glances up toward the suites again.
Toward me. The second he catches me standing there looking completely emotionally compromised over a hockey save, the corner of his mouth lifts slightly.
Warmth floods straight through my body. It’s ridiculous how much that tiny expression affects me.
The final horn sounds, and the entire arena explodes.
People leap to their feet around us while the Venom bench empties onto the ice in a rush of green and purple jerseys and shouting bodies.
Sticks bang against the boards. Music blasts overhead.
Somewhere behind me, Sofia screams loud enough to qualify as a medical event.
And down on the ice, Owen laughs. Head thrown back, full smile with all his teeth.
The sound doesn’t reach me through the glass, but I see it while Bowen grabs him around the shoulders hard enough to nearly drag him sideways.
Viktor barrels into the celebration a second later, practically vibrating with excitement while he pounds both hands against Owen’s helmet.
“Oh, my God,” Dot says to Knova from beside me. “Your husband’s going to cry.”
“He cries during insurance commercials,” Knova shoots back.
“Last week he cried at a kitten meme,” Vivian adds.
“Okay, but it was adorable,” Knova argues. “Savage and I cried too.”
I barely hear any of them because all I can see is Owen. Not the angry man from the suspension hearing. Not the terrified little boy hiding inside all that control. Not the man who looked at me like I held his entire future in my hands.
This Owen looks lighter. Still intense. But lighter, and the realization hits me unexpectedly hard. He did this. Not me. Not crisis management. Not media spin.
Him.
The therapy. The work. The willingness to look at the ugliest parts of himself instead of pretending they weren’t there. Most people spend their entire lives running from that kind of self-awareness.
Owen walked straight into it.
Pride swells inside my chest so suddenly it almost hurts.
“Oh, no,” Minerva says quietly beside me.
I blink. “What?”
She points at my face. “You’ve got the look.”
“What look?”
“The ‘I’m in love with a hockey player, and now his success feels spiritually personal’ look.”
“I do not have a look.”
All five women stare at me silently.
“Okay,” I admit. “Maybe a small look.”
Sofia snorts.
Down below us, the players begin filtering off the ice toward the tunnel. Fans crowd against the glass, trying to get fist bumps and tossed pucks from the players as they pass.
Owen disappears briefly into the chaos. Then he reappears near the tunnel entrance and immediately lifts his head toward the suites.
Even from this far away, I know the exact moment he finds me in the crowd. His entire expression softens with visible relief, like he’s been looking for me specifically.