11. Laurie
Chapter eleven
Laurie
The arena is nothing like the hotel ballroom.
It is louder, colder, and smells like popcorn and hot pretzels. And it's full of people who care deeply about men chasing a puck at dangerous speeds.
I tug at the sleeves of the Outlaws jacket Grant handed me in the parking garage and try not to notice that it still holds a trace of his cologne.
Charcoal black. Burnished copper logo over my heart. Dark forest-green trim.
Apparently, I am team-branded now.
“Relax,” Grant says beside me.
“You keep saying that in places where everyone is staring.”
“They’re staring at the ice.”
A woman in a copper-and-green jersey walks past, does a double-take at Grant’s hand on my back, then whispers something to her friend.
I look up at him.
Grant’s mouth barely moves. “Mostly at the ice.”
“That was almost a joke.”
“I’m capable of them.”
“Are you? Or did someone write that down for you?”
His fingers flex lightly against my back.
Not enough to pull me closer.
Not enough to be possessive.
Just enough to steady me as a group of fans surges past us with nachos, foam fingers, and enough team spirit to power a small town.
It should feel staged.
Unfortunately, my body has decided staged and safe are close enough to be confusing.
The concourse wraps around the arena in a wide, bustling loop. Kids in jerseys dart between adults. A man with a painted face shouts something about defense. Somewhere nearby, someone spills popcorn, and three people step over it like this is a normal part of the sporting experience.
Grant leans closer so I can hear him over the noise. “We’re sitting near the glass.”
“Not in a fancy box?”
His brow lifts. “Disappointed?”
“Relieved.”
That earns me a look.
“The box is quieter,” he says. “But you won’t understand the team from there.”
“I didn’t realize understanding the team was part of fake fiancée training.”
He almost smiles. His hand slides from my back to my elbow as we move through another wave of fans.
“Speaking of training,” Grant says.
“That is a terrible start to a sentence.”
He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a small black box.
I stop walking.
Completely.
“No.”
“Laurie.”
“Absolutely not.”
“You haven’t seen it.”
“Grant Thorne, if that box contains an actual engagement ring, I will throw myself into the nearest nacho stand.”
His mouth twitches. “It does not contain an actual engagement ring.”
I narrow my eyes.
He opens the box.
Inside sits the largest hockey team ring I have ever seen in my life.
A giant clear stone rises from the top. Along both sides, in tiny burnished copper letters, are the words IRON PEAK OUTLAWS.
I stare at it.
Then at him.
Then back at the ring.
“Is this,” I ask slowly, “team merchandise?”
“It's a promotional item from a championship campaign.”
“You bought me a fake engagement ring from the gift shop?”
“Technically, it was in storage.”
“That does not improve the situation.”
He takes the ring out of the box, and for one terrible second, he looks almost proud of himself. “It solves a visibility issue without implying permanence.”
I press a hand to my chest. “Romance is alive and wearing a licensing agreement.”
“You said you didn’t want a real ring.”
“I didn’t realize the other option was sports memorabilia.”
His thumb brushes the side of the ring, and something in his expression shifts—just for a second. “It’s temporary.”
Right. That is the point.
I look from the ridiculous ring to his too-serious face and lift one finger. “Before I put that on, we need to be clear about something.”
His expression sharpens. “All right.”
“This fake engagement does not give you permission to start handling my life.”
His jaw tightens. “I wouldn’t use your situation against you.”
“I didn’t say you would.” I soften, but only a little. “I’m saying help that isn’t asked for can still feel like being managed.”
There is a tiny pause before he answers.
“Understood.”
“Good.”
I hold out my hand before I can overthink it. “Fine. But if anyone asks, I’m telling them you proposed during a T-shirt cannon malfunction.”
This time, Grant actually smiles.
Barely.
But enough.
He slides the ridiculous ring onto my finger.
It is too big, too shiny, and absolutely impossible to take seriously.
Which is probably why my heart has no business reacting when his hand lingers over mine.
I am beginning to suspect one of my worst character flaws is that I want to make Grant Thorne smile just to prove it can be done.
That is dangerous.
I should stick to safe goals.
Like restoring Lestor Lodge.
Or surviving tonight without accidentally becoming more engaged than I already accidentally am.
Grant guides me toward the stairs leading down into the bowl. “This is why we’re here. Visibility reduces speculation.”
“No, Grant. Visibility is currently creating speculation.”
“Unstructured speculation is worse.”
I stop on the step and look at him.
He stops too, one step below me, which puts us almost eye to eye.
The arena noise rolls around us. Music pounds. A horn blares from somewhere overhead. Fans stream past in both directions.
“Do you hear yourself when you say things like that?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“And it doesn’t concern you?”
“Frequently.”
That catches me off guard.
So does the look in his eyes.
For one brief second, I can see the weight behind the control. The calculations. The constant assessment. The man who does not enter any room without noting every exit, every risk, every person watching.
Then someone behind us yells, “Let’s go, Outlaws!” and the moment breaks.
Grant steps aside, letting a family pass. “Come on.”
I follow him down toward the glass.
The cold rises from the ice in a clean, sharp wave. The rink glows under bright lights, white and perfect and waiting.
Players in dark jerseys begin to streak across the surface for warmups, copper numbers flashing as they pass.
Skates slice.
Pucks crack against boards.
The entire arena hums with anticipation.
Our seats are close to the action. Just a few rows up from the glass, in a reserved section with other families, staff, and people who obviously are tied to the team.
I sit, and the boards rattle as a puck slams into them right in front of me.
I jump.
Grant’s hand closes briefly over mine.
“They do that,” he says.
“Hit things?”
“Frequently.”
“Wonderful.”
His hand stays over mine for a beat.
Then he releases it and turns toward the ice like nothing happened.
A player in a number forty-three jersey circles near the far boards. He is not flashy like some of the younger guys, but controlled. Strong. Efficient rather than showy.
“That's Shane Hollis,” he says.
Shane takes a pass, pivots, and sends the puck hard toward the net. The goalie catches it.
Grant’s attention remains fixed on him. “He’s been with the organization for years. Steady. Reliable. Not flashy. Every coach knows what he brings. But he's struggling.”
"What kind of struggle?"
"Financial. Housing. The outlaws can't afford to pay the second and third tier players like they do the stars. He's one of the guys who is making just enough to live on."
“It's a shame he doesn't have a friend with a lodge.”
Grant looks at me, his eyes wide for a second. "That's brilliant."
"What's brilliant?"
"The lodge. We can write it into the lower player contracts, like we did with yours."
The crowd roars as another player sends a puck into the net during warmups.
I barely hear it.
Grant is still watching Shane.
Not like an owner calculating value.
Like a man wanting to help another man.
Something inside me softens.
“You care about him,” I say.
His answer is immediate. “He’s my responsibility.”
Maybe this is the problem with Grant. He uses words like responsibility because they are safer than care.
But care is there.
Under the clipped sentences and the contracts and the hand at my back that is supposed to be strategy.
It is there.
The lights dim. The crowd erupts.
Music pounds through the arena as the announcer’s voice booms overhead, introducing the starting lineup. Fans rise around us, shouting names, clapping, stomping, turning the whole building into a living thing.
Grant stands.
After a second, so do I.
The Outlaws take the ice.
For the next twenty minutes, bodies crash into the boards. Sticks slap the ice. Fans yell advice as if the players can hear them.
Grant leans close explaining the game. His voice is low near my ear, pointing out defensive shifts and line changes and why a play actually matters.
I try to listen.
I do.
But sometimes his sleeve brushes mine, or his knee touches mine, or his hand settles briefly at my back when someone squeezes past our row, and my entire brain freezes.
By the end of the first period, I understand three things.
One: hockey is faster in person.
Two: Shane Hollis is one of Grant's favorite players.
Three: fake holding hands is a dangerous sport.
Halfway through the second period, one of the players makes a play that brings the arena to its feet.
Grant stands with the rest of them, clapping hard.
I look at him.
At the controlled line of his shoulders. The guarded profile. The man who talks about assets but notices when my hands are cold. The man who thinks in rules because rules might keep people safe.
He is not what I thought.
Because if Grant Thorne were only arrogant, controlling, and rich, this would be easy.
I know how to resist those men.
I do not know how to resist this kind of man.
***
The Outlaws win by one.
The crowd pours into the concourse after the final horn, loud and happy and half-drunk on victory. Grant keeps me close as we move with the flow, his hand at my back again, his body angled just enough to keep people from bumping into me.
We find a quieter corridor near the lower-level exit, away from the heaviest crowd.
The sound from the arena is muted here, distant and echoing. Staff move past with headsets and clipboards. Somewhere behind a closed door, someone laughs.
Grant guides me through a doorway.
I turn to thank him and end up too close.
Grant stops.
His hand is still at my back.
My pulse is completely unreasonable.
His eyes drop to my mouth.
“Laurie." My name in his voice sounds like a warning.
And then I remember this is a lie.
I step back.
The loss of his warmth is immediate.
“We should go,” I whisper.
Grant’s jaw tightens, but he nods. “Yes.”
His phone buzzes. The sound cuts through the moment like a blade. He pulls it from his pocket and reads the screen.
Whatever he sees turns his expression unreadable.
“What?” I ask.
He hesitates.
Then he shows me the message.
Vivian: Photos from tonight are already circulating. Jessie’s attorney reached out. They want to discuss terms before Friday’s review. Call me.
My stomach twists.
“So,” I say, forcing the word past the tightness in my throat. “Does that mean the fake engagement is working?”
Grant looks at me.
The corridor feels too quiet.
“It bought time,” he says.
Time.
Of course.
Not tenderness. Not almost-kisses. Not the way my hand fit too easily in his.
Grant’s hand moves like he might reach for me, then stops.
We walk toward the parking garage side by side, not touching now.
The arena noise fades behind us.
And all I can think is that thirty days suddenly feels like far too much time.
And not nearly enough.