Chapter Twenty-Five #2
“I am an overtired Virgo. I have no filter and no fucks. Yes, I’m mean but it’s true, she was fun to go to a club with sometimes, but that’s it.
And she was after Gale for clout. You actually see Gale as a person, not a ticket to the VIP section.
And three”—she pauses, a wicked grin spreading across her face—“you’re the only woman I’ve ever seen reduce Hockey Hotshot to a stumbling mess while listening to you ramble about some random Greek myth factoid.
I’d be mostly tuned out and I love you. He’d act like you were delivering the news. ”
I open my mouth and shut it. Words aren’t coming.
“I know you’ve known that overgrown puppy since he was more ego than sense. And I’m gonna let you in on a little secret—I’ve
been watching you two dance around each other for years.”
“Wait, what?” I sputter, nearly choking on my coffee.
Brooke rolls her eyes. “Oh, please. The way you were drooling the night of his NHL debut. The way he looked like he was going
to murder Zach the night of my party. You challenge him, Harriet. You make him use that pretty head for something other than
a helmet rack.”
She leans back, looking smug despite the impressive array of stains on her shirt. “I wasn’t ever gonna say anything. Figured
I’d let you two idiots figure it out on your own. But since you’re over here having a meltdown, asking why you and not Jess Fucking Hernandez, I’m stepping in.”
Brooke fixes me with a look that welcomes no argument. “You’re Harriet Fucking Symthe, PhD-toting AI goddess and accidental
hockey player kryptonite. So stop this guilt trip and own it, already.” She reaches out, taking my hand in hers. “And I’m
sorry if I ever made you feel like you had to choose between your feelings and our friendship. That’s not what best friends
do.”
I can’t hold back the tears anymore. They spill down my cheeks as I squeeze Brooke’s hand. “I love you, you know that?” I
say, my voice choked with emotion.
Brooke smiles, her own eyes watery. “I love you too, you big nerd. Now, come here and give me a hug before Benji decides it’s
time for his next diaper explosion.”
We laugh through our tears and as we pull apart, I feel a sense of rightness settle over me. This is how it should be—no secrets, no fear, just love and understanding.
Brooke’s expression softens. “Honey, I want both of you to be happy. And if you make each other happy, then I’m thrilled.
Just . . . maybe spare me the explicit details, okay? There are some things a sister doesn’t need to know.”
I laugh, relief washing over me. “Deal. Though I will say, your brother is very . . . accommodating.”
Brooke groans. “That’s already more than I needed to know. Now, are you going to his game tonight?”
I nod, excitement bubbling up inside me. “Yeah, I am.”
“Good,” Brooke says, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Wear something that’ll distract him just enough to make the game interesting,
but not enough to make him lose. I’ve got money on this one.”
I gasp in mock outrage. “Are you using your inside knowledge for gambling purposes?”
She shrugs, grinning. “I have to get my kicks where I can. Now go, get ready. Make my brother weak in the knees.”
Holy shit, this place is louder than my brain during a midnight coding binge. The arena’s buzzing with energy, and I swear
I can feel the excitement dancing over my skin. Or maybe that’s just my nerves doing the cha-cha up and down my spine.
I’m clutching my VIP pass, trying to accept my new role as hockey player girlfriend. No Brooke, no squad, just me here to
cheer on lucky number seven.
As I sink into the cushy seat, I take in the crowd around me.
Some are decked out in designer gear, others in jerseys and face paint.
I’m rocking jeans that hug my curves just right, boots I can actually walk in, and Gale’s jersey knotted up to show a slice of midriff.
My blond mess is in its usual ponytail, and I’ve swapped my usual glasses for contacts.
For a heart-stopping moment, I’m hit with a wave of “what the actual hell am I doing here?” My chest tightens, and I can feel
the familiar tendrils of panic starting to creep in. But then the teams hit the ice, and suddenly, the world narrows to a
single point.
There he is looking like he stepped out of one of my late-night fantasies and onto the ice. Those dark waves peeking out from
his helmet make my fingers itch to run through them, and that jaw could cut glass. As he glides across the ice with the grace
of a panther and the confidence of a god, his eyes sweep the crowd. And then—boom!—they lock onto mine.
The smile that spreads across his face? It’s like watching the sun break through storm clouds, warm and bright and full of
promise. He gives me a little nod, and in that moment, all my insecurities, all my lingering doubts about belonging here,
they just . . . melt away. Like lines of code resolving into a perfect program.
What matters is that I’m here, supporting the man who’s slowly but surely becoming the center of my universe.
The game is intense from the start and neither side is giving an inch. I find myself getting swept up in the excitement, cheering
and gasping along with the rest of the crowd.
He’s tearing across that ice like a man possessed, all raw power and fluid grace, and I swear I’ve forgotten how to breathe.
But the real rush comes from knowing I can make this powerhouse drop to his knees with just a whisper.
Every time that puck hits his stick, the whole arena erupts, and suddenly I’m up too, heart in my throat, screaming like I’ve forgotten how to be anything but raw nerve endings.
He moves like violence in slow motion, like poetry written in bruises and blood, and I can’t look away, can barely blink.
At one point I let slip something embarrassingly thirsty about his hands—hopefully just under my breath, but it might’ve been at full volume, and you know what?
I’m past caring. Let the world know. I’m done pretending he doesn’t light me up.
As the final period begins, the score is tied. The tension in the arena is thick enough to cut with a knife. And then, with
just two minutes left on the clock, Gale picks up a loose puck.
Time seems to slow down as he weaves through the opposing team’s defense. I’m on my feet, my heart pounding in my chest. Gale
approaches the goal, draws back his stick, and . . .
He buries the puck into the back of the net and I am jumping up and down, screaming myself hoarse. Gale pumps his fist in
the air, his teammates swarming him in celebration.
As the final seconds tick away, securing the Regals’ victory, Gale skates to the edge of the rink. He pulls off his helmet,
those dark curls damp with sweat, and looks right at me. Then, in full view of everyone, he blows me a kiss.
I catch that imaginary kiss and press it to my heart, grinning fierce and wild. In that moment, all those voices from my past—the
ones that whisper I’m too much, too loud, too strong—they go silent. Because he doesn’t want some delicate flower. He wants
the storm. Wants the lightning. I belong here—not because I’ve made myself smaller and safer, but because he’s man enough
to handle me at full volume. Let me overflow. He’s got big hands—he can catch whatever spills over.
Because of my VIP credentials, I’m allowed to wait after the game in the arena hallway near the locker room. My heart is still
racing from the excitement of the game. Players and staff bustle around me, but I barely notice them. My eyes are fixed on
the door, waiting for one person in particular.
When he finally emerges, my breath catches in my throat. His hair is damp from the shower, curling around his ears. He’s wearing a well-fitted suit that highlights his athletic build, but it’s his smile—bright and a little bit shy—that truly takes my breath away.
“Doc,” he says, his voice low and warm as he approaches, eyes locked on mine like I’m the only person in this crowded arena.
“You made it.”
I nod, any quick comebacks suddenly evaporating. “Wouldn’t have missed it for anything. Gale, you were . . . just wow out
there.”
His smile softens, a flush creeping up his neck that has nothing to do with the game. “Having you here . . . it made all the
difference.”
We stand there, just taking each other in, like we’re trying to capture this moment forever. The noise and bustle around us
fade to a distant hum, and it’s just us in our own little world.
Finally, Gale breaks the silence, his voice a mix of hope and nerves that makes my heart skip. “So, um . . . I was thinking . . .
Want to grab a bite? Keep the night going?”
“Oh, this night is going to be going for sure.”
And as Gale’s face lights up with a smile that could outshine the arena floodlights, I realize I’m in way deeper than I ever
expected. But you know what? I wouldn’t change a thing. I pretend to consider for a moment, tapping my chin thoughtfully.
“But then again . . . I hear hockey players can be quite the handful. Though I suppose you’ve already proven you can handle
me, haven’t you.”
The spark that ignites in Gale’s eyes sends a shiver down my spine. He steps closer, close enough that I can feel the heat
radiating off his body. “Oh, I think I’ve shown I’m up for any challenge you throw my way, doc,” he murmurs, his voice low
and husky.
I reach up, fiddling with his tie like it’s the most fascinating piece of fabric I’ve ever seen.
“You did a good job,” I say, letting my fingers do a little dance on his chest. “I’ve got some celebrating in mind.
Let’s skip dinner out and order in.” His eyes go wide like I just offered him the secret to eternal hat tricks.
“Your place or mine?”
“Yours.” I cock an eyebrow. “You’ve got the California king and I want a lot of square footage to work with.”
“Jesus.” Gale lets out a noise that’s half groan, half laugh. “Are you trying to get us kicked out of here?”
I lean in, my lips barely grazing his ear as I murmur, “Then I suggest you hustle. My self-control’s dangling by a thread.”
I hear his swallow. “You’re gonna be the death of me, you know that?”
I grin, all innocence. “Yeah, but what a way to go, right?”
As we practically run to his truck in the players’ garage I can’t help but laugh. This—the excitement, the passion, the sheer
joy of being with him—this is what I’d been afraid of?