Chapter 47 Jules
JULES
The Chicago Breeze arena buzzes with energy that’s infectious even for people who can hardly tell a puck from a pancake—by the way, I wanted to bathe in the spiced whipped cream from brunch the other day. Yes, it was that good.
Oly and I order overpriced nachos and Nate tucks in with a couple of hot dogs.
“Okay, so what do we know so far?” Oly asks, helping herself to a chip slathered in yellow cheese.
“There are three periods,” Nate explains.
“That’s a good start. But I was talking about Juliana and Linc.”
“I thought we were talking about hockey,” her husband says.
Glad for a diversion, at least for now, I state the obvious, “It’s cold.”
Nate’s eyes swirl with the kind of frenzied excitement I’ve seen from my brothers. “And they fight each other.”
“Like, actually fight?” Oly asks..
“Sometimes. It’s encouraged.” He winks.
She grins. “I like this sport already.”
The arena fills rapidly, a sea of blue-and-white Breeze jerseys and team merch surrounding us. The energy is electric—music pounding, lights flashing, fans chanting in unison. When the players take the ice for warm-ups, the crowd erupts.
“This is intense,” I shout over the noise.
“And we haven’t even started yet,” Nate shouts back.
Oly leans over during a break in the music. “Want to play red flag, green flag while we watch?”
“Sure, but your potential boyfriends will be the Breeze players and mine will be the Outlaws.”
This is but another one of our games we used to play when we were both single. I know she’s doing it for my benefit now that she’s married and wouldn’t so much as dream about another man, But she knows I need to take my mind off Linc—he’s all I want to think about.
Speaking of green, I might be pining for the man I once despised.
“We’ll just analyze the players based on hockey skills and body language, then decide if they’re relationship material. Green flag for good boyfriend potential, red flag for run-away-fast.”
I laugh despite myself. “Oly, we can’t even see their faces through those helmets.”
“That’s what makes it fun.”
No sooner do we decide that the goalie for the Breeze seems sweet and wholesome, does the game begin with a fury and pace I wasn’t expecting.
Considering they’re wearing skates, the players race across the ice at impossible speeds.
My date with Linc sends me spinning in mental circles.
He was a really good skater. We held hands.
We joked around. I felt so far from hating him … did I ever really?
So much for red flag, green flag. The game zips along with the puck flying between sticks so fast I can barely track it. The crowd roars with every near-miss, every hit, every spectacular save by the goalies.
“Number twelve for Chicago,” Oly points out during a brief pause. “Green flag. Look at that hustle.”
“How can you tell he has hustle?” I ask.
“The way he skates. Very determined. Probably the type to bring you soup when you’re sick.”
We’re into the early part of the second period when one of the guys is called for a penalty.
Having more fun than I expected, I say, “Definitely red flag.”
“For sure,” she agrees.
Next, she gives a player a green and red checkered flag when he comes to one of his teammates’ defense after the opponent slammed him into the boards.
I’m laughing at her logic when the game resumes and not a minute later, the announcer’s voice booms through the arena, “Goal scored by number eighty-three, Linc Andresen!”
My blood turns to ice in my veins.
The crowd explodes around me, jumping to their feet as the player in question celebrates near the goal. I watch in horrified fascination as he raises his stick, skating backward with his arms spread wide, accepting congratulations from his teammates.
Even with the helmet obscuring most of his face, I know that posture, those broad shoulders, the way he moves across the ice with powerful grace.
Linc Andresen. My Linc.
My enemy, my boss, my partner in crime, my adventure trailblazer, er, tunnel-blazer, the best kisser on the planet, Linc, is a professional hockey player?
“Juliana?” Oly’s voice sounds like it’s coming from underwater.
I can’t speak. Can’t breathe. The activity in the arena blurs into a watercolor tableau.
The athletic build I admired.
The way he moved on the rink like he’d been doing it all his life.
Why he was so resistant to working at Meridian.
All of it adds up.
I’m so stupid. So foolish.
“Juliana, seriously, what’s wrong?” Oly grabs my arm.
“That’s him,” I whisper.
“Who?” She must not have heard Linc’s name broadcast over the raucous noise in the arena.
“Number eighty-three. That’s Linc.”
Oly’s eyes widen as she processes this information. Then her voice rises an octave. “That’s your Linc?”
I nod, unable to look away as he lines up for a face-off.
He’s completely in his element out there, commanding and confident beyond what I’ve already seen.
This is who he really is. Not the reluctant businessman learning his father’s trade, but a professional athlete playing in front of thousands of screaming fans.
Oly glares at him from the stands. “Red flag. Red sirens blaring. Alarm bells ringing.”
The rest of the game passes in a fog. I watch him score two more goals, assist another, and celebrate with teammates who adore him. The crowd chants his name. A group of women behind us discuss his dating history.
“He dated Iva Katz,” one says.
“They broke up last year, but there were photos of them together recently,” another adds. “Super cozy at a smoothie shop.”
My hands shake as I grip the armrests of my seat. Photos of him with Iva? Recent photos? While he was supposedly falling for me, he was still connected to his actress ex?
Everything we shared—the lake house, the quiet mornings, the way he looked at me like I was someone special—was it all just a convenient distraction while his real life was on hold?
When the final buzzer sounds and Chicago wins five to four, Oly turns to me with eyes full of sympathy. “What are you going to do?”
I watch Linc skate off the ice, accepting congratulations from over the glass. He’s in his world, surrounded by his people, living his real life.
And I’m nobody. A temporary assistant with a forged diploma and a burned-down house, sitting in the nosebleed seats while watching the man I thought I knew score hat tricks for a living.
“I’m going home,” I say quietly.
“To Linc’s place?”
The thought of returning to his penthouse, sleeping in his guest room while he’s off playing hockey, and possibly rekindling things with a gorgeous actress makes me want to disappear entirely.
“Actually, can I crash at your place tonight?”
Oly’s expression softens. “Of course. You can stay as long as you like. But Juliana, you need to talk to him. There might be an explanation—”
“There’s no explanation for lying about who he is.
” The words come out like daggers. “He let me believe he was a rich kid reluctantly learning the family business. Meanwhile, he’s a professional athlete with his name on jerseys and women discussing his love life in the stands. He probably has a hashtag.”
As we make our way through the crowded concourse, I try to ignore his presence everywhere—on the lips of fans, on merchandise, on my heart.
My phone buzzes with a text.
Linc: Hope your day was good. Miss you. Be home soon.
I glare at the message, remembering how those same hands that typed it belong to a man who is in this building. A man who just played professional hockey in front of twenty thousand people. How can someone be so close and so distant at the same time?
“You’re not going to chase him with a hockey stick?” Oly asks as we wait for Nate to get the car. “Throw pucks through his car windshield? I once super-glued my ex’s apartment door shut after he stood me up for my birthday.”
I almost smile. “Nope.”
“Oh.” Her voice drops. “You’re icing him out.”
The hockey pun isn’t lost on me, but I don’t laugh. Instead, I feel something cold and protective settle around my heart. This is what I do when people let me down—I go quiet, build walls, vanish before they can disappear on me first.
Dad taught me that lesson well, even if he never meant to.
“Can you bring me to Linc’s?” I ask from the backseat of Nate’s Jeep. “I need to get my things.”
Oly turns around, concern etched on her face. “Are you sure you want to do that tonight? You could wait until—”
“I’ll grab a cab to your place.” The words come out sharper than I intend.
The city blurs past the window as we drive toward the penthouse. I’m already thinking about Monday morning—about facing Linc at work, pretending I don’t know his secret while carrying the weight of mine.
Here’s the thing—I never told him I didn’t actually graduate from college. I’ve been deceptive, false. The only difference is that his lie involves fame and fortune, while mine involves desperation and fraud.
Now I have nothing. No home, courtesy of the fire. No job—once HR discovers my educational background. And no Linc, because whatever we had was built on a foundation of half-truths and summer fun that couldn’t survive the harsh light of reality.
I let myself feel the dense impossibility of my situation. I’m twenty-seven years old, professionally adrift, emotionally devastated, and more alone than I’ve been.
But I’m also angry. And sometimes, anger is easier to handle than heartbreak.