18. Ellie
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
ELLIE
It was the evening of game three, and Brashe had been cleared to play.
I stood in my bedroom, staring at the four outfits lying across the bed.
Marzipan sat on the dresser, her yellow eyes tracking my movement with the judgment only a cat could deliver. I’d tried on the jeans twice. The dress felt too formal, and it would be cold in the arena. The leggings-and-sweater combo screamed trying too hard not to try.
Brashe’s hoodie hung over my desk chair where I’d left it after work yesterday.
I picked it up, turning it over in my hands. Sniffing it.
“I’m just checking if it needs washing,” I told Marzipan.
She slow-blinked.
“Wearing this is practical,” I said, pulling it over my head, tugging it down around my jeans. “The arena is cold.”
Marzipan’s tail flicked once.
The hoodie hung almost to my knees, the sleeves extending well past my fingertips. I had to roll them four times to free my hands. My phone said 6:13 PM. Forty-seven minutes until the game.
No text from Brashe, but I hadn’t expected one. He’d be in the zone now, going through his pre-game routine that shut out everything else.
I texted Crim. Good luck tonight.
Are you wearing what I think you’re wearing?
I don’t know what you’re talking about.
Uh huh. His name and number are on the back.
I froze.
The full-length mirror by my bedroom door caught my reflection as I turned. KEDISH 8 blazed across the back in bold letters, impossible to miss.
I had three other perfectly acceptable outfits lying on my bed that I could wear instead. Any of them would work. None of them would announce to the entire arena that I was wearing Brashe Kedish’s hoodie like I was making a declaration.
My hands found the hem.
Marzipan meowed once. It sounded encouraging, though I was probably projecting.
“You’re right,” I said to my cat. “It’s a hoodie. Plenty of people will be wearing his name and number.”
Though those jerseys and hoodies had not belonged to him.
I didn’t change.
The staff parking lot looked the same as always. I killed the engine and sat with my hands on the steering wheel, trying to figure out what exactly I was doing here.
I wasn’t officially working tonight. We weren’t dating. No, I stood somewhere in the awful in-between where I didn’t know which door to use or where I belonged. The hoodie felt like a neon sign. Everyone could see. They’d guess if they didn’t already know.
I took a breath and got out of my car.
Every step toward the entrance amplified the voice in my head telling me this was a mistake. Wearing his number was too obvious. By the time I reached the main corridor, my face flamed and my palms were sweating.
“Well, well, well.” Patty appeared from the break room, a coffee cup in hand. She did a double-take that would’ve been comical if I wasn’t dying inside. “Whose hoodie is that?”
My face went nuclear. “It’s team issue.”
“Uh-huh.” Her grin turned dangerous. “That’s what they all say.”
Before I could defend myself, though I had no idea what defense I could offer, Haley joined me and linked our arms together like we’d been friends for years instead of only a few weeks.
“There you are.” She steered me down the corridor before I could protest. “Come on, you’re sitting with us.”
“I was going to sit with the coaches.”
“Are you working?”
“No. Not tonight.”
“Then there’s no harm in sitting with the wives and girlfriends tonight. Even I am. I’ve got a night off!”
“I’m not—We’re not—”
“It’ll be fun. Trust me. And before you argue, I already told everyone you were coming.”
“Everyone?”
“Simone, a few others. They’re excited to meet you.”
My stomach flipped.
There was no taking this back.
Haley led me through the arena. We passed the staff section where I usually sat and part of the general seating with its crush of purple-clad fans already settling in. She led me to a section above the penalty box with a perfect view of both nets.
Six women were already seated, laughing and talking. They turned when Haley and I stopped beside them.
Simone spotted my clothing first. “Oh my god, you’re wearing his hoodie.”
I wanted to die. Or disappear. Or both, in that exact order.
“It’s complicated,” I managed to say.
Trina, Revast’s girlfriend, a stunning blonde who made me want to simultaneously befriend her and hide, nodded. “It’s always complicated. Right up until it isn’t.”
They’d saved a seat for me and pulled me into the group like I’d always belonged there. Kira, Neva’s wife, passed me a cup of hot chocolate. “You look like you need this.”
I took it, grateful for something to do with my hands that wasn’t pulling at the hoodie ties.
Simone leaned in, her voice pitched low enough that only I could hear. “He looks at you like Fedor looks at chocolate cake. And that orc loves chocolate.”
Someone asked how we’d met. Another woman wanted to know if he was treating me right. Trina asked if he was as intense off the ice as on.
I deflected, but they were persistent in the kindest possible way. They weren’t being nosy. They were pulling me into their circle because I was wearing his hoodie and that must mean everything in this world.
The lights dimmed. The crowd’s roar hit hard enough I felt it in my teeth. The teams would skate out any second.
The tunnel doors opened and the team poured onto the ice in a wave of purple jerseys.
Wearing his full gear, Brashe skated toward the net. The crowd’s noise made my ribs vibrate. He did a lap, testing his edges, warming up the hip I’d spent considerable time rehabilitating. I gripped my hot chocolate cup so hard the cardboard buckled.
He was going to look up. I could feel it coming like static electricity before a storm.
His gaze swept toward the family section and landed on me immediately as if he’d known exactly where to look.
I didn’t move. Every thought in my head had been replaced with the awareness that he was looking at me.
I made myself lift my hand. A small wave, almost shy, because what else could I do?
He couldn’t wave back—goalie mask, gloves, stick—but he nodded once.
My breath stuttered out of rhythm, and my stomach did a weird flip-swoop thing.
“Did you see that?” Simone nudged me, grinning. “He found you first.”
Haley leaned in from my other side. “Before he even settled in at the goal.”
“That’s a male who knows what matters,” Trina said, her voice carrying a knowing tone.
I couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. I could only watch as warm-ups continued, and he moved through the drills easily, then took practice shots from the team.
He stopped everything, looking sharp and confident and exactly like the brutal goalie everyone talked about.
His hip seemed solid. I didn’t see any hesitation in his movements.
But I noticed him glancing up between saves, finding me in the stands.
Every time he did, my skin went hot, then cold. Like standing too close to a bonfire and then stepping back into winter air. I didn’t know if I wanted him to keep looking or to forget I was here.
The puck dropped.
My fingers found the hoodie ties, twisting them. Around me, the women settled into their seats as if they’d done this a hundred times. They knew when to cheer, when to hold their breath, and when to yell at the refs.
I didn’t know any of that. I only knew how to watch him.
The first shot came fast from a Crusher forward breaking away on the left side. Brashe moved into position, his angles perfect, his weight distributed exactly how we’d practiced. The puck hit his glove with a solid thwack that I felt in my chest.
“Nice save,” Trina called out.
I exhaled, realizing I’d been holding my breath.
The second shot came four minutes later, a slap shot from the point, high glove side.
He moved but something was wrong. His angle was off by a few inches.
Not enough that anyone else would notice, but I’d spent a lot of time with my hands on that hip, learning every centimeter of his movement patterns.
The puck sailed past him. He’d overcompensated.
“Did you see that?” I asked Haley, leaning forward.
“The miss? Yeah, but it went wide anyway.”
“No, his positioning.”
“He’s favoring the hip.”
Except he wasn’t. I’d seen enough compensatory movement to know what it looked like, and this wasn’t it. His hip was solid. The rehab had worked.
This was something else.
Between plays, he turned toward our section before focusing again on the ice.
My stomach dropped.
“Oh no,” I whispered.
“What?” Simone asked, following my gaze.
“I think I’m distracting him.”
The third shot came with less than nine minutes left in the period. Top shelf, glove side. He dove, his form perfect, his reaction time sharp. But he was a fraction too late. The red light blazed behind him.
The crowd’s groan rolled through the arena.
I pressed my fist against my mouth.
He stood slowly, tapping his stick against the posts in that ritual all goalies do. Shaking it off. Resetting. But he turned toward the family section again. Finding me. Making sure I was still there.
I watched him miss the next shot too.
Coach Beecham called a timeout.
The team huddled around the bench, purple jerseys clustered tight. Crim was gesturing, probably trying to fire everyone up. Tolrek’s hand landed on Brashe’s shoulder pad.
Brashe stood at the center of the huddle like a statue, his mask still on, his body language screaming something I’d only seen in the treatment room when he thought he was disappearing.
“It isn’t his hip,” I said, more to myself than anyone else.
Kira heard me anyway. “What do you mean?”
“His movements are perfect. His angles are good. He’s not compensating for pain.” I couldn’t look away from him. “He’s in his head.”
The timeout ended. Play resumed.
He stopped the next shot, a clean save that should’ve built his confidence. But when the play moved back down the ice, his helmet turned toward the stands again. Toward me.
I wanted to disappear. Wanted to take off his hoodie and hide it under my seat so he’d stop looking. He needed to stop analyzing what it might mean that I was here, wearing his name, sitting with the women dating or married to his teammates.
The period couldn’t end fast enough.
When the buzzer finally sounded, ending the first period, the team skated off the ice with their heads down. Brashe was the last one off, moving slowly, like every stride cost him something.
I stood on shaking legs.
“Where are you going?” Haley asked.
“I don’t know. I’m ruining his game.” My voice cracked. “I shouldn’t have come or worn this.” I pulled at the hoodie’s hem. “If only I’d known better.”
Simone stood, catching my arm gently. “Hey. Breathe. This isn’t your fault.”
“Isn’t it? He keeps looking up here. He’s not focused, and it’s because I’m wearing his number like I have the right to.”
Because I didn’t know if I had that right. We weren’t together. We were in some undefined space where he’d slept in my bed and left before dawn. Where I’d rehabbed his injury and he’d brought me coffee and we’d kissed and ground together in a therapy pool like teenagers who didn’t know better.
But we weren’t teenagers. He was a professional goalie having the worst period of his playoff career, and I was the physical therapist wearing his hoodie in the stands.
What had I been thinking?