Chapter 7
SEVEN
STELLAN
The arena rose up out of the Seattle evening, all glass and light and spectacle, humming with bodies dressed in blue and silver.
Next to me, Naomi looked perfectly unimpressed, strolling along in heels that towered like the Statue of Liberty.
Somehow, she moved with the same confidence as everyone else around us, all those people who looked like they’d done this a hundred times.
Not me. First time.
But, hey. First time for everything, right? I followed the overhead signs, presented our tickets, and half expected the scanner to flash red because sorry, honey, this isn’t actually your life.
The tickets worked. I wasn’t sure just why it surprised me—maybe because it still didn’t make sense that Matt had even sent them.
That they’d landed in my inbox like it was nothing, just a thing he’d forwarded between lifting something absurdly heavy and drinking a protein shake that tasted like feet.
Didn’t make sense that this wasn’t just some joke to him.
They were good seats, too—not an absurd box that floated above the rink and offered complimentary cocktails and lobster foam.
But really good. A few rows up from the glass on one side, close enough we’d see the scrape of skates, the expression on a player’s face when he turned. Ronan would have gone nuts for this.
I drew a measured breath, and Naomi slid me a sideways glance. “Okay,” she said. “No.”
“What?” I asked, then stepped aside for a man with two beers in each hand.
“That face.” She slid into her seat and squinted up at me. “Don’t do that.”
I sat down as well, reaching for a casual air. “It’s just my face.”
“Bullshit,” she said, almost cheerful. “That, right there, is the very definition of emotional constipation.”
“Please. I’m here for the hockey.”
“Sure.” She took in the arena, thousands of seats that rose high, filling fast. “Totally casual. Should I buy you his jersey?”
I couldn’t catch my laugh before it slipped out. “At least I’d blend right in.”
I would—had already noticed it on the way in. Kids in Matt’s jersey. Women in his jersey. Laughing teenagers and men built like trucks, all in his jersey.
“Maybe a tasteful ‘Mr. Harkins’ across the cheek, then?” Naomi suggested. “To set you apart.”
“Remind me why I asked you along?”
She smiled sweetly. “Because, unlike Ronan, I know exactly how you came into these tickets. Also, someone’s got to keep you honest.”
Fair point.
Music thudded, lights glinting off the glass walls.
A giant screen showed highlight reels that turned players into gladiators.
Sponsor logos were caught under the ice.
The people around us had a different energy than some of the crowd we’d passed on the way in—unimpressed, like they were used to this.
Team-adjacent, maybe. Sponsors, friends-and-family orbit, or simply rich enough to afford sitting close to the action, everyone exuding an air of we belong here, but do you?
It reminded me of the first time they’d placed Ronan and me in a group home, everyone else seeming to know where to stand, when to speak, what counted as normal. You learned fast or you stood out. Me, I’d learned fast.
Naomi leaned toward me. “These are very good seats.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“So he’s trying to impress you now.” She made it sound like a statement, and I shook my head, attention on… everything, kind of. Because it was a lot.
“It’s just the seats he gets. Part of the player allotment, apparently.”
“And he gave them to you.” She paused, as if the words deserved it. “Which is why we’re here and not twenty-five rows up trying to duck away from a food fight.”
“They would have gone unused otherwise.”
“You’re desperately trying to turn this into less than it is.” Her gaze slid to the ice. “It’s kind of cute. Wrong, but cute.”
I was just about to inform her that I was not cute, thanks, when the arena lights dropped a notch.
Noise rolled up like an incoming thunderstorm.
And… the first players slid out on the ice for warmup.
Lines of blue and silver, the visiting team in electric green, helmets flashing under the lights.
The screen cut from sponsor reels to player shots, names bursting into massive letters above their faces. Marco Oswald. Cole Evers.
Matt Harkins. Prominent jawline, eyes dark and focused. Team captain.
Somewhere in the bowl around us, a pocket of people started chanting his name. And—well. Fuck.
Fuck.
I’d known, obviously. I wasn’t some idiot who’d somehow forgotten he was good at hockey.
I’d watched clips and a couple of interviews, had caught bits of games that Ronan watched on our TV, skimmed headlines.
But this was… God. The scale of it. The way his skates hit the ice.
How the crowd seemed to get just a little louder for him.
Public property.
And me? I wasn’t ever going to fit next to that in daylight.
Naomi made a small noise under her breath. “Okay,” she said. “I get it.”
Like surfacing from underwater. I took a breath. “Get what?”
“Why you’re fucked. And not necessarily in the fun way.”
I laughed, slightly too thin, and kept my eyes on the rink.
Warmup had a rhythm to it. Players carved tight arcs into the ice, pucks snapped from one blade to another, shots hammered off the glass behind the net.
I wasn’t a hockey person, not like the guy behind us who listed road stats like they mattered to his blood pressure, but even I could tell that these were professionals, all of them.
Control and precision, speed. The puck kept disappearing on me, there one second, gone in a blur of skates the next. I stopped trying to follow it and followed Matt instead. Because it was easier. Just that.
He was fast, efficient. No wasted motion, quick little touches on the puck, no scrambling, just one clean turn after another like the ice belonged to him.
At one point, a teammate fumbled a pass near the boards on our side, and Matt glided past, said something quick, tapped his stick against the other guy’s, and the man straightened to try again.
Captain stuff, apparently. Even I could read that much.
My attention kept snagging on Matt, but only because he was just that fucking good. Really. It wasn’t because I knew the shape of those shoulders in the weak afternoon light of his apartment, or the rough scrape of his breath when he said my name.
Not at all.
Naomi said something about popcorn. I made an agreeable noise and told myself I wasn’t waiting for Matt to find me in the crowd.
This wasn’t some dramatic rom-com moment where the music swelled and all obstacles melted away like ice under the sun and the crowd surged to its feet for a roaring round of applause.
Nope. Just me up here and him down there.
A pause by the boards near our side? Not for me. A smile for the cameras? Not for me either.
A quick sweep of his attention while he cut around a teammate. It snagged on me for half a second, just long enough that something in my chest lurched—then he looked away too fast, like reality had kicked in.
It was fine. I knew what this was.
Naomi leaned into my side and dropped her head onto my shoulder. “Babe,” she said, too soft.
I curled my bottom lip over my teeth. “I’m concentrating.”
“On hockey?”
“Yes.”
“Then why do you look sad?”
Shit. I dragged a hand over my mouth and made myself look somewhere that wasn’t the ice, wasn’t Matt—just when the giant screen threw up another montage of him scoring, grinning with his teammates under flashy blue words about leadership and heart and get your tickets before they sell out.
It did hurt just a little, seeing him like this. Yeah, he was hot—sure. Brimming with skill, so bright that even I could tell. But also… carrying a lot. All this money, all these people counting on him to carry his team into the playoffs. Straight lines and a clean story. Franchise face.
And then there was me, three rows up and knowing how he sounded with my name caught in his throat.
I glanced at Naomi. “I’m just… processing.”
“Yeah.” She nodded, quieter now, her teasing gone. “It’s a lot, huh?”
“And then some.”
We let silence settle for a minute. Two rows down, a boy smacked the glass with both palms until his dad pulled him back, laughing.
Most seats were filled now, people slurping sodas and munching hot dogs, watching the warmup like it mattered.
Down on the ice, the goalie at our end dropped into a crouch and sprang back up again so fast it looked almost comical.
“Do you want to hear some good news, though?” Naomi asked.
I turned to look at her. “Last time you said that, it involved a DJ, a rooftop, and a guy trying to get me drunk on amaretto.”
“Not this time.” She crossed one leg over the other, heel flashing red. “I quit.”
Whoa. Wait.
I realized I was staring and blinked. “The agency?”
“No, church.” She snorted, mouth twisting.
“Yes, the agency. Turns out helping rich idiots outsource their trust issues isn’t really my long-term calling.
So I’ll need a plan B, because modeling’s not a pension plan.
I’d rather not wake up at forty and realize my only marketable skill is tilting my face just so. ”
The arena announcer boomed something overhead. I barely noticed. “You quit. Jesus.”
“Yeah, well.” She brushed imaginary dirt off her sleeve. “The thing with him helped.” She didn’t say his name, didn’t glance toward the ice. “Wasn’t the only reason, more like the final nudge. Still, it was hard to keep telling myself it was all just harmless fun after that.”
She’d really fucking quit.
I reached over and squeezed her hand. “Good for you,” I said. “Really.”
“God, don’t go all mushy, okay?” She slipped me a quick glance, her eyes a little shiny. “It was about time, that’s all.”
“Okay.” I kept my voice light for her sake more than mine. “You know I’ve got your back.”
She cleared her throat and shot me another look, quick and direct. “Yeah. I know.”
“Good.”