45. Ariella
FORTY-FIVE
ARIELLA
I HOPE YOU FIND A PARTNER WHO GIVES YOU GIFTS THAT PROVE THEY KNOW YOU.
The chill cut through the fabric of my suit, but I didn’t mind. I enjoyed the reprieve from all the anticipation coursing in my body. The atmosphere was electric, and the opener hadn’t even started yet.
“So, what do you think?”
Dalton’s words rumbled in my ear as I stared out the tunnel we were minutes from walking down.
“I can’t believe I’m on the coaching staff for an NHL team.”
His warm chuckle traveled down my spine, settling between my thighs.
“I can’t believe I’m going to try and play after eating all that food.”
“I told you to slow down,” I scolded, rounding on him.
“God were they worth it. Your mom told me I can come back after the game for more.” He wagged his brows at me, causing the scowl I was trying to give him to fall.
“You should have heard the lecture I got about not letting you eat more.” I smiled at the memory. “My mom said you’re a growing boy who needed your food. And I told her I thought the ten tacos you’d already had were probably enough.”
Laughter echoed off the tunnel, settling into a comfortable silence between us.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For the party, the tickets, flying Gracie out so her annoying ass can sit right behind me at my first NHL game. I’m not even the one playing, and you made sure everyone would be here to support me.” God, did that make my heart burst for him.
“You deserve everything and more, Sunshine.” He said with a soft smile, stroking my cheek with his thumb. “I’ve got something else for you,” he said, the confidence slipping slightly, his hand coming up to scratch at his neck.
“Wait. Me first.” I really shouldn’t have eaten so much, because now, all of it was threatening to make a second appearance. I pulled a large folded jersey out of my bag that looked identical to the one he had on—hadn’t realized he’d brought spares when I threw out his other one—minus one major change.
His brows pinched together. “I don’t?—”
“Just look at the back.” My tone was almost harsh, but I was seconds away from puking, I was so nervous.
Dalton turned the jersey over, his fingers brushing the fabric. I watched his expression shift, curiosity giving way to disbelief as his eyes landed on the name. THATCHER stretched across the shoulders, bold and unapologetic.
His chest rose and fell, but I could see the crack in his composure, the way his throat bobbed when he swallowed hard. When he finally lifted head, his green eyes were raw and unguarded.
“Ari...” His voice was low, thick with emotion. He looked back down at the name, his thumb tracing the stitched letters “You did this for me?”
I nodded. “You should play under the name you want, not the one your dad forced you to.”
His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but nothing came out. Instead, he closed the space between us in two steps, pulling me into a tight embrace. His arms wrapped around me, his face buried in my hair. I felt the deep, shuddering breath he took, the tremor in his hold as he tried to keep himself together.
“You have no idea,” he murmured, his voice cracking. “No idea what this means to me.”
Tears stung the back of my eyes, but I held them back, pressing my palms against his chest.
“Can you take a picture of me in it on the ice? I want to send it to my mom, she’s going to love it.” He chuckled. “We are probably going to have to have a fan jersey made for her. And darlin’, when we get back, will you come to family dinner with me to meet her?” he asked, gripping my chin.
My heart stuttered in my chest. “Of course. I mean, it only seems fair since you just endured meeting five hundred of my family members.”
“And I can’t wait to be around them again,” he said smiling, before it fell slightly, replaced by a nervous expression. “It looks like we had the same idea for a first game present.” He pulled a swath of navy fabric from behind his back, handing it to me. Flashes of what looked like orange stitching on the back caught my attention as I unfolded it.
“You know, I’m glad I moved you into my bedroom, because planning surprises is a lot easier when your girlfriend’s clothes are hanging in your closet.” The nerves were clear in his voice, and it took me a moment to figure out what the hell he was talking about.
But it all clicked when I unfolded a suit jacket. Orange embroidery matching the color and number on his jersey stared back at me.
55.
“I told you I’d find another way to see my number on your back.” There was no missing the hint of possessiveness when he spoke. It rolled over me like a caress. “If you don’t like it, you don’t ha?—”
I cut him off, lunging at him and wrapping my arms around his neck. The hard planes of his gear bit into my skin, but I didn’t care.
“Woah, there, Ari. In skates here,” he laughed, catching me around the waist, his shoulder colliding with the cinderblock wall.
“I love it.” I love you.
“Really? Because it was a fifty-fifty shot of you reacting like this or telling me off at the idea of being marked by me.”
I leaned in, pressing my lips to his. The kiss was slow and deliberate, like we had all the time in the world, like he wanted to savor every second. His hands on my waist tightened, pulling me closer, and I melted against him, my fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck.
The roar of the arena preparing for the game seemed distant, muffled by the rush of blood in my ears and the way Dalton’s lips moved against mine.
When we finally pulled back, his forehead rested against mine, our breath mingling in the quiet space between us. “You have no idea how much you mean to me,” he murmured, his voice low and rough.
I smiled, my fingers tracing the edge of his jaw. “I think I have a pretty good idea.”
He kissed me again, softer this time
“Alright, Coach, time to put that jacket on and show everyone who you’re rooting for.”
“Shit.”
Another player, this time from San Jose, slammed into the backboards, rattling the plexiglass, the sound mixing with the shit-talking from players on the bench and chatter of the crowd.
Monroe snorted, suited arms crossed over his chest, clipboard in hand. “Contreras, you’ve been around hockey how long and you’re still reacting to hits?” he taunted.
“Gets me every time,” I said, craning my neck to catch Dalton’s breakaway.
My comment earned me a snort, his eyes never leaving the gameplay. The guy looked at the rink in the way I analyzed a player’s body movements.
Reading. Anticipating.
I could see why the players liked him so well as a coach. Monroe read plays almost as well as Dalton.
My stomach swooped just thinking about him. He was impressive on the ice, skating with an assertiveness that made it hard to pull my eyes away. Every move he made, the numbers on my back warmed. As if the whole arena’s eyes were on those two numbers.
We were up by two going into the final period, and the boys were on fire. A loud clang echoed off the ice, the puck nailing the crossbar of our goal. The play caused a scramble for the puck.
San Jose was aggressive in their play. They weren’t shy about putting us into the walls.
And I wasn’t sure how to feel about it.
As a coach, I winced every time, my mind playing through every injury a hit like that could cause.
Then there was the other reaction I had to it. A reaction I was blaming on biology, because I found it incredibly hot every time Dalton slammed a grown man into the plexi.
I thought back to what he’d whispered to me during intermission when he was supposed to be paying attention to Monroe’s gameplay prep for the third period.
“Sunshine, there a reason you bit your lip when I plastered Holtz against the glass? Because if I didn’t know any better, I’d say it turned you on.”
“Good thing you know better then, Thatcher.”
Dalton had to have a superpower. It’s like he knew when I was thinking about him, because mid-flashback, he shoulder-checked Holtz into the boards next to the penalty back, and he had the audacity to wink at me before skating away .
“Great. How many of my players are using the game to get laid?” Monroe grumbled, throwing a hand in the air.
“Coach, we’ve always used the game to get laid. You should know that.” Jimenez laughed, catching his breath on the bench. “Hell, don’t tell boss man, but you wouldn’t even have to pay me to play this game professionally. Drowning in pussy is payment enough.”
“You think anyone is going to want you if you’re broke, Jimenez?”
“What do you mean? Of course, Coach. Ari over here is always telling Cap not to pay for shit.” He threw an arm out my way, standing and gnawing at his mouthpiece as he waited to go out on the ice for the final minutes of the period.
“That’s because Dalton’s got a good personality. All you’ve got going for you is your money, Jimenez,” Monroe ribbed, his tone making it obvious he was messing with the defensemen.
“That’s cold, Coach. Cold. My good looks are my other selling feature.” He flashed a gleaming smile, and I laughed.
Then everything came to a screeching halt.
The energy in the arena shifted instantly, from electric anticipation to something heavy, tense, and wrong.
It started with the collision. Two players slammed into each other at full speed, sticks tangling, skates scraping hard against the ice. Dalton was one of them. The crowd roared, but I barely heard it, my entire focus narrowing on the rink as his body hit the ice at an awkward angle.
He didn’t get up.
“Shit,” Monroe muttered, his clipboard dropping to his side as the players on the bench surged forward, craning their necks to see what was happening. Jimenez swore under his breath beside me, his usual grin wiped clean off his face.
Dalton still wasn’t moving.
My heart thudded painfully in my chest, each beat echoing in my ears. “Get up, Thatcher,” I whispered, my hands gripping the edge of the railing so hard my knuckles turned white.
But he didn’t.
The refs blew their whistles, the game grinding to a halt as trainers hurried onto the ice. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but their hurried movements and the way they gestured for the stretcher made my stomach drop.
He’s fine. He’s fine. He has to be fine.
But my brain didn’t believe the lie. The way he was lying there, so still, sent a cold wave of panic crashing over me.
“Shit, this isn’t good,” Monroe muttered, his usual stoic demeanor cracking as he exchanged a grim look with the assistant coach.
I barely heard him. My thoughts spiraled, every terrifying possibility flashing through my mind. What if it was his spine? His head? What if?—
“Ari?” Jimenez’s voice snapped me back to reality. He was looking at me, concern etched into his features. “You okay?”
I wasn’t, but I nodded anyway, unable to tear my eyes away from the ice as the trainers finally reached Dalton. They were speaking to him now, one of them crouched down by his head. I searched for any sign of movement, anything that would tell me he was okay.
And then, finally, he moved. Just a little—his hand flexed, and his head turned slightly as he spoke to the trainers. Relief should’ve washed over me, but it didn’t. Not fully. Not until I knew exactly what was wrong.
“Come on, Dalton,” I whispered again, my voice shaking as they carefully lifted him onto the stretcher. My pulse roared in my ears, and I could feel the sting of unshed tears pricking the backs of my eyes.
I cared for him—more than cared for him. And seeing him like this, vulnerable and hurt, made it impossible not to admit just how much.
As they wheeled him off the ice, the crowd offering a mix of cheers and nervous murmurs, my body moved on autopilot. I turned to Monroe, my voice steadier than I felt. “I’m going with him.”
He didn’t argue. Didn’t even try. He just nodded, giving me a sharp look that said he knew how much this mattered.
“Keep me updated,” Monroe said, his tone softer than usual.