Chapter 33
HARLOW
The arena was electric.
I’d been to hockey games before, but this felt different. Everything felt different when I was wearing Owen’s name on my back.
The jersey hung loose on me, the hem grazing mid-thigh over my leggings.
I felt claimed, and I loved it more than I probably should have.
The student section was packed with bodies pressed together in a sea of navy and white. Everyone was screaming and stomping, making the metal bleachers vibrate beneath my feet. Signs waved overhead, GO EAGLES and DESTROY THEM.
I found a spot near the glass, not far from the penalty box. Close enough that Owen spotted me the moment he stepped onto the ice.
His eyes found mine as if I were the only person in a crowd of thousands. He did a double-take when he saw the jersey, his whole body going still for a heartbeat before a grin split across his face.
He winked at me before skating off to join his teammates, and I couldn’t stop smiling.
The buzzer sounded, signaling the end of warm-ups, and the teams retreated to their respective benches. The announcer’s voice boomed through the speakers, rattling off player names and stats.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to tonight’s matchup between your Clarkson University Eagles and Denver University’s Wolves.”
The crowd exploded, and I screamed along with them. My throat was already going raw, and the game hadn’t even started yet.
The players took their positions at center ice. Owen was there, bent forward over his stick. Even from here, I could see the tension in his shoulders, the focus sharpening his features into something fierce and predatory.
The puck dropped, and everything happened fast.
Owen won the face-off, stick flashing as he swept the puck back to Bennett, who was already moving. The play showed the hours of practice, years of teamwork, and an almost telepathic understanding of where everyone needed to be.
The Wolves were good, though. Their defense collapsed around Owen the moment he touched the puck, two players converging on him aggressively, making me wince.
He absorbed the hit, kept his feet, and managed to pass the puck to Stanley before getting slammed into the boards hard enough that I felt it in my teeth.
“Come on, ref,” someone behind me screamed. “That’s interference.”
No whistle. The play continued.
The first period was brutal. The Wolves played dirty, late hits, subtle stick work that the refs kept missing. Owen took hit after hit, each time he picked himself up with that stubborn set to his jaw, and he channeled all of it into his skating, his shots, his relentless pursuit of the puck.
He was magnificent.
Every time he had the puck, the crowd held its breath. He moved like water, weaving through defenders with a grace that seemed impossible for someone his size. His shots were bullets, and the Wolves’ goalie was working overtime to keep them out of the net.
Midway through the first period, Owen took a pass from Ryder at the blue line.
He faked left, deked right, and left two defenders sprawling in his wake.
The goalie came out to challenge him, cutting down the angle, but Owen was already moving, already adjusting.
He went top shelf, the puck sailing over the goalie’s glove and hitting the back of the net.
The arena erupted, and I flew out of my seat, screaming so loud my voice cracked. I jumped up and down with everyone around me, the metal bleachers shaking under our collective celebration. On the ice, Owen’s teammates mobbed him, helmets bumping, gloves slapping his back.
He looked up at me through the glass.
Pointed his stick directly at me, and I thought my heart was going to explode.
The game continued. The Wolves answered with a goal, a scrappy play in front of the net that the Eagles’ goalie never saw coming. Then Bennett scored on a beautiful wrist shot from the slot, putting the Eagles up 2-1.
By the time the second period started, I’d completely lost my voice.
I also caught the attention of someone I really wished I hadn’t.
Number fourteen for the Wolves. I didn’t know his name, didn’t care to learn it. What I did know was that he’d been watching me for the past several minutes, his eyes finding me in the crowd every time there was a pause in the game.
It started with looks, but then those glances started lingering, his gaze traveling over the jersey I was wearing with an expression that made my skin crawl.
During a TV timeout, the players gathered near their respective benches. Number fourteen was positioned near the glass, directly in front of me. He turned, looked right at me, and his lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile.
More like a smirk.
I crossed my arms over my chest and looked away, refusing to engage.
He skated closer to the glass. Close enough that I could hear him when he spoke.
“Hey, sweetheart.”
I didn’t acknowledge him. Kept my eyes fixed on the ice, on Owen, on anywhere else.
“I’m talking to you. Blondie in the jersey.”
A few people around me noticed now, their attention shifting from the ice to whatever was unfolding between me and this asshole.
I finally met his eyes. “Can I help you?”
His smirk widened. He leaned in, close enough that his breath fogged the glass. “You should take off that ugly jersey and wear mine. I would look a lot better on you.”
My lip curled up in disgust as the blood drained from my face.
“Excuse me?” The blood flooded back in a rush of heat that had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with fury.
“You heard me.” He was getting off on making me uncomfortable, on the power trip of saying whatever he wanted, and knowing I couldn’t do anything about it. “Taylor’s a bitch. You want a real man, you come find me after the game.”
“I’d rather choke.”
His laugh was ugly. “Feisty. I like that.”
A body slammed into the glass so hard I stumbled backward.
Owen.
He came out of nowhere, crossing the ice like a missile locked onto a target. His stick clattered to the surface as he pinned number fourteen against the boards, his forearm pressed against the guy’s chest, his face inches away.
“Stay the fuck away from her.”
Number fourteen shoved back, and for a heart-stopping moment, I thought they were going to drop gloves right there. Owen’s fists were clenched at his side, and his whole body was vibrating with violence.
But he didn’t swing. He stepped back, jabbing a finger at the guy’s chest one final time before skating away. His jaw was tight enough to crack. His eyes found mine through the glass, and what I saw there wasn’t anger. It was possession. Protection. A promise that this wasn’t over.
The refs were blowing whistles, trying to restore order. Number fourteen was still running his mouth, gesturing at me, at Owen, clearly trying to escalate the situation. But Owen had already rejoined his teammates.
The puck dropped, and Owen proceeded to absolutely destroy them.
I’d never seen him play like that. Every check was devastating. Every shot was a cannon blast. He was everywhere at once, forechecking, backchecking, winning every battle along the boards. The Wolves couldn’t contain him because he’d become something elemental, something unstoppable.
Number fourteen made the mistake of trying to hit him. Owen saw it coming from a mile away, absorbed the impact, then used the guy’s momentum against him, sending him sprawling across the ice.
The crowd roared its approval, but that wasn’t enough.
The next time they crossed paths, there was no finesse. No strategic checking or skillful maneuvering. Just Owen dropping his gloves and grabbing number fourteen by the jersey before the guy even knew what was happening.
The fight was brutal and beautiful.
Owen’s fist connected with a crack that I swear I heard all the way up in the stands. Number fourteen tried to swing back, but Owen had the advantage, reach, strength, and a cold, calculated fury that turned every punch into a statement.
This is for talking to her.
This is for looking at her.
This is for thinking you had any right to even breathe in her direction.
The refs finally pulled them apart, but not before Owen landed two more devastating hits. Blood was streaming from number fourteen’s nose, his face already swelling.
Owen was escorted to the penalty box, five minutes for fighting. He didn’t seem to care. As he skated past the glass, past me, he looked up with a smile that was all teeth and satisfaction.
Worth it, his expression said. Completely fucking worth it.
I pressed my palm against the glass, and he pressed his hand against the other side. Just long enough for everyone to see.
The crowd around me was buzzing with speculation and curiosity.
I didn’t care.
Let them talk. Let them wonder. Let them see Owen’s name on my back and know exactly what it meant.
The rest of the game passed in a blur of adrenaline and emotion. Even down a man, the Eagles held their lead. Owen came out of the penalty box, scoring another goal within three minutes.
Final score: Eagles 4, Wolves 2.
The celebration was deafening. Players mobbing each other on the ice, fans screaming themselves hoarse, the announcer’s voice barely audible over the chaos.
I waited.
Waited while the teams shook hands. Waited while the crowd began to thin. Waited while the players disappeared into the tunnel, their victory cheers echoing off the concrete walls.
Then my phone buzzed.
Owen: Locker room. Five minutes.
My heart hammered against my ribs as I made my way down from the stands, navigating through the dispersing crowd until I found the door he’d described. It was unmarked, slightly ajar, and when I pushed it open, I found myself in a narrow hallway.
He was waiting for me.
Still in his gear, helmet off, hair plastered to his forehead. He looked exhausted and exhilarated and absolutely gorgeous. His chest still heaved from exertion, eyes burning with something that made my knees weak.
“Hi,” I managed.
He didn’t answer with words.
He just pulled me to him and kissed me like he needed to taste me more than he needed to breathe.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead pressed against mine, his breath ragged against my lips.
“You’re incredible,” I whispered. “That fight…”
“He deserved worse. Nobody talks to you like that.”
“Owen…”
“Did you see the goal?” He was grinning now. “The one after I got out of the box?”
“I saw.” I was laughing. “I saw everything.”
“Yeah?” His hands cupped my face, thumbs brushing my cheekbones. “What did you think?”
“I think you’re mine,” I said. “And I’m never taking off this jersey.”
His smile was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.