THE AWAY GAME
The private charter flight to New York was supposed to be a standard team operation, but the atmosphere inside the cabin was anything but routine.
Elara sat in a plush leather window seat near the front of the aircraft, entirely enveloped in the massive, forest-green Pioneers team hoodie Julian had tossed her before they boarded.
The cabin hummed with the low, steady drone of the jet engines and the chaotic, testosterone-fueled banter of thirty professional athletes.
She was the only woman on the plane, and technically, she shouldn't have been there.
Wives and girlfriends rarely traveled on the team charter unless it was the playoffs.
But Julian hadn't asked Coach Baxter for permission; he had simply stated that Elara was coming.
After the incident with the leaked audio tape and the brutal fight on the ice in Portland, no one in management was stupid enough to argue with the captain.
"You're quiet," Julian murmured, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that sent a familiar thrill straight down her spine.
He was sitting beside her, his massive frame taking up his seat and a considerable portion of the aisle.
He had a playbook open on his lap, but his stormy gray eyes were entirely focused on her profile.
He reached across the center console, his large, bandaged hand covering both of hers where they rested in her lap.
"I'm just thinking," Elara replied softly, turning her head to look at him. She intertwined her fingers with his, the physical connection grounding her instantly. "About New York. About the last time we were both in that city."
Julian’s eyes darkened, the memory of the charity gala two years ago flashing instantly to the surface. The silver dress. The spilled champagne. The desperate, starved look he had given her from across the room when she belonged to another man.
"We're going to overwrite that memory," Julian promised, his thumb tracing the delicate bones of her wrist. "This trip isn't about the past, Elara. It's about us. Right now."
"Thorne! Hey, Cap!"
The loud, entirely unbothered voice of Miller, the team’s rookie winger, shattered the intimate bubble. Miller leaned over the back of Julian’s seat, a mischievous grin on his face.
"The guys in the back are placing bets," Miller announced, completely ignoring the lethal glare Julian instantly leveled at him. "How many seconds into the first period before the Rangers try to put you into the boards? I've got thirty seconds. Vasquez thinks they'll do it off the opening face-off."
"Tell Vasquez I’ll put him into the boards at practice if he doesn't sit down and shut up," Julian growled, though there was no real malice in his tone.
Miller laughed, his gaze shifting to Elara. "Don't let him fool you, Elara. He loves the hostile crowds. The New York fans are going to be screaming bloody murder tonight, and he’s going to eat it up."
"I’ll keep that in mind, Miller," Elara smiled, genuinely amused by the team dynamic. "I'll try not to cover my eyes."
As Miller retreated to the back of the plane, Julian let out a heavy sigh, shifting his weight to lean closer to Elara.
"They're going to be brutal tonight," Julian warned her quietly, the protective edge returning to his voice.
"New York fans don't care about PR contracts or media narratives. They care that I'm the captain of the team standing between them and a division title. They are going to shout things. They might throw things at the glass. I need to know you're going to be okay in that suite."
Elara reached up, her small hand cupping the side of his bruised jaw. She didn't see the hockey captain the rest of the world saw; she saw the man who had knelt on her floor and worshipped her like a religion.
"I survived Declan’s PR machine, Julian," she whispered fiercely. "A few angry hockey fans aren't going to break me. You just focus on the ice. I’ll be right exactly where I’m supposed to be."
Julian closed his eyes, leaning into her touch. "God, I love you."
The words still sent a violent, beautiful shockwave through her system every time he said them. She leaned across the console and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth, completely indifferent to the thirty teammates sitting behind them.
Madison Square Garden was not an arena; it was an amphitheater of absolute chaos.
From the moment Elara stepped into the VIP box situated directly above the Pioneer’s defensive zone, the sheer volume of the New York crowd was deafening. The sea of blue and red jerseys pulsed with an aggressive, territorial energy.
Sarah, who had flown a commercial to meet them in the city, stood nervously in the corner of the suite. The PR director was frantically scrolling through Twitter.
"The narrative is officially out of our hands," Sarah muttered, looking up at Elara. "The pictures of Julian carrying your bags out of the hotel this afternoon leaked. The media isn't calling this a showmance anymore. They’re calling it an obsession."
"Let them call it whatever they want," Elara said dismissively, taking her seat right at the edge of the glass. She was wearing a sleek, tailored black blazer and a pair of dark jeans, abandoning the oversized team merchandise. She looked sophisticated, unbothered, and entirely in control.
The stadium lights plunged into darkness. The roar of the New York crowd reached a fever pitch as the home team took the ice, followed immediately by the Portland Pioneers.
When Julian skated out of the tunnel, the chorus of boos was so loud it actually rattled the reinforced glass of Elara’s suite.
Julian didn't even flinch. He skated with that terrifying, predatory grace, his massive frame cutting through the ice. He didn't look up at the crowd, and he didn't look up at Elara’s suite. He was completely, ruthlessly locked in.
The puck dropped, and the violence was instantaneous.
Miller had been wrong. It didn't take thirty seconds for the Rangers to target Julian; it took ten. A massive New York defenseman checked Julian directly into the plexiglass with a bone-jarring CRACK.
Elara’s breath caught in her throat, her hands gripping the armrests of her chair.
But Julian didn't go down. He absorbed the hit, spun off the boards with impossible agility, stole the puck directly off the defenseman's stick, and fired a blindingly fast wrist shot that pinged off the metal goalpost.
The crowd went completely feral.
For the next two hours, Elara watched the man she loved endure an absolute physical gauntlet.
The game was agonizingly close, the score tied 2-2 going into the final five minutes of the third period.
Every time Julian stepped onto the ice, the entire stadium targeted him with a barrage of noise and aggression.
But Coach Baxter had been right. Julian was playing with a different kind of fire.
He wasn't taking the bait. When players chirped at him, he didn't drop his gloves.
He let the insults slide off his back, his stormy gray eyes focused entirely on the scoreboard.
He was playing with absolute, lethal discipline.
With two minutes left on the clock, Julian intercepted a pass in the neutral zone.
He crossed the blue line, entirely surrounded by three New York defenders. Elara stood up, her heart hammering frantically against her ribs.
Julian didn't pass. He faked a shot, dropping his shoulder and driving hard to the left, shattering the defensive line.
The goalie anticipated the move, sliding to cover the corner, but Julian dragged the puck backward through his own skates in a display of impossible, blinding skill, and backhanded it directly into the top right corner of the net.
The red goal light flashed.
Madison Square Garden went completely, terrifyingly silent for a fraction of a second before erupting into a furious, deafening groan.
Down on the ice, the Pioneers swarmed Julian, slamming him against the glass in a chaotic pile of green and silver jerseys. Julian emerged from the pile, his helmet slightly askew, a fierce, triumphant roar tearing from his throat.
He didn't celebrate with the crowd. He skated directly to the center circle, turned his massive body, and looked straight up at the VIP suite.
He didn't point his stick. He didn't tap his chest. He just looked at her, his chest heaving, the absolute victor of the arena, offering her the win.
Elara pressed her hand to the glass, a brilliant, radiant smile breaking across her face. Mine, she thought, the realization ringing through her bones with absolute certainty. He is entirely mine.
The final horn sounded. Portland had won.
The team hotel was a luxury high-rise in Midtown Manhattan.
By the time Julian managed to escape the post-game press conference, the media gauntlet outside the arena, and the mandatory team meeting, it was nearly 1:00 AM.
Elara was waiting for him in his penthouse suite. She had ordered room service, though the food sat mostly untouched on the dining table. She was standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out over the glittering, neon-lit sprawl of the city that never sleeps.
The heavy oak door of the suite clicked open.
Elara turned.
Julian stepped into the room, dropping his heavy leather duffel bag onto the floor.
He was wearing a sharp, dark suit, his tie already loosened and hanging around his neck.
He looked completely drained, the physical toll of the brutal game evident in the heavy set of his shoulders and the dark shadows under his eyes.
But the moment he saw her standing by the window, the exhaustion seemed to evaporate.
He didn't say a word. He crossed the sprawling suite in four long strides. Elara barely had time to turn away from the window before his massive arms wrapped around her waist, lifting her entirely off the carpet.
He buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling deeply, a heavy, shuddering sigh tearing through his chest.