Chapter 9
Chapter nine
Natalie
“You look nervous.”
“I don't.”
“You’re twisting your ring.”
I immediately stop twisting my ring.
Across from me, one of the WAGS grins like she has caught me doing something scandalous instead of sitting in the same family section I have sat in since Mason was drafted.
“I’m fine,” I say. “It’s just another game.”
It's not just another game.
The arena smells the same. Popcorn. Ice. That sharp, metallic chill that lives in hockey rinks. The music is loud. The lights sweep across the stands. Kids lean over the glass with signs.
I've been here a hundred times.
But tonight I'm not just Mason’s sister.
Tonight I'm Gabriel Shelly’s wife.
The word sits differently in this building.
Warm ups begin. The team pours onto the ice. Mason skates a tight circle near the blue line, loose and focused. I watch him automatically. Habit.
Then my eyes drift.
Gabriel finishes a hard stride along the boards, stops on a dime, sprays ice. He looks exactly like he always does before a game. Calm. Controlled. Contained.
He glances toward the family section.
Just for a second.
Our eyes meet.
It's quick. Almost nothing.
But it feels like everything.
"Okay, hold on," Mia says, turning toward me with a bright grin.
Mia is married to Eli, our starting goalie, and she has fully embraced her role as social director of the WAG section.
Eli took Mason under his wing when Mason first joined the Outlaws, which is how Mia and I ended up becoming friends in the first place.
"We haven't properly congratulated you yet. "
I blink. "You texted me congratulations."
"That was a text," she says. "This is in person. Totally different category."
Harper smiles warmly. Harper is Coach Hale's wife and somehow manages to be both calm and quietly intimidating at the same time. "She's right. Congratulations, Natalie."
"Thank you," I say, feeling a little shy under the attention.
Mia leans her elbows on the railing. "So how is married life? It's been what… a few days?"
"Something like that," I say.
"And?" she presses. "Is it weird?"
"It's… new," I admit.
Harper nods thoughtfully. "That sounds about right for the first week of marriage."
"You two seem very calm about this," Mia says, looking between us. "If I married a professional hockey player or anyone on short notice, I would absolutely be spiraling."
Harper tilts her head toward the ice. "Honestly I'm still impressed you pulled off a secret courthouse wedding in the middle of hockey season."
"Right?" Mia says. "Half the league can't keep a haircut secret and you two got married without anyone noticing."
Then Mia nudges my arm lightly. "Also… you're staring at Gabriel like you just realized he's hot."
Harper lifts a brow. "To be fair, that realization happens to most women eventually."
"You're both impossible," I mutter.
Mia laughs. "Relax. No one is saying anything. Yet."
"We like him," Harper adds gently. "That helps."
My eyes drift back to the ice before either of them can read my face too closely.
Apparently I'm not as subtle as I thought.
After the National Anthem, the puck drops.
The first period is fast. Clean. Physical.
Mason blocks a shot early and clears the zone. Gabriel finishes a check along the boards and ties up his man in front of the net. The crowd roars at a near breakaway. I clap when I am supposed to clap. I stand when everyone stands.
This is muscle memory.
Except now I track two numbers on the ice.
That realization hits me somewhere between a defensive zone faceoff and a line change.
Married.
I press my lips together.
Halfway through the period, an opposing winger takes a late run at one of our rookies. The hit is high. Dirty.
The rookie goes down.
The crowd boos.
Gabriel is there first.
He shoves the guy back, chest to chest. Words are exchanged.
The arena explodes.
I am on my feet before I realize I have moved.
Mason skates in, not fighting but ready. Ready to protect. Ready to escalate if needed.
Gabriel drops his gloves first.
It's fast and sharp. The other guy lands one back. They grapple, helmets knocked loose, jerseys twisted.
I have watched fights before. I know the choreography. I know the difference between a staged scrap and something that isn't entirely planned.
This one isn't staged.
Gabriel isn't smiling.
He takes a punch to the cheek. His head snaps back.
My stomach drops.
They tumble to the ice. Refs rush in. The whistle shrieks.
The crowd chants.
I'm silent.
I stare.
They separate the players. Gabriel skates to the box, jaw tight, knuckles red.
Mason skates past the penalty box and taps the glass with his stick once.
Brother language.
You good?
Gabriel nods.
I sit down slowly.
“You okay?” my mom asks under her breath.
“Fine,” I say.
I am not fine.
The second period opens with more edge. Hits are heavier. Whistles shorter. The other team is pushing. Mason clears the crease hard. Gabriel blocks a shot near the slot and limps for half a second before straightening.
I notice.
I notice everything.
There is a shift late in the second.
The puck cycles high. A defenseman winds up and fires.
Gabriel drops in front of it.
The puck slams into his leg.
He goes down.
He doesn't pop back up.
The arena sound changes. It dulls.
I'm not aware of the people next to me anymore.
I'm not aware of the score.
I'm only aware of the way he's still on the ice.
The trainer skates out.
Mason hovers.
Gabriel pushes up to his knees.
Then to his skates.
The arena erupts in applause.
I release a breath I didn't realize I was holding.
He skates to the bench. Slow. Controlled. Stubborn.
He doesn't look at the stands.
He looks straight ahead.
***
The third period is tight.
One goal game and the Outlaws are ahead.
Mason and Gabriel are both double shifting now. Heavy minutes. The kind that leaves bruises that bloom tomorrow.
With two minutes left, the other team pulls their goalie.
Six skaters.
Chaos.
The puck ricochets off a skate. Mason dives to clear it along the boards. Gabriel pins a forward against the glass long enough for support to arrive.
Bodies collide. Sticks clash. The horn finally sounds.
Win!
The crowd stands.
I clap because everyone else is clapping.
But my chest feels tight. Not from excitement. From something else.
From the fact that when he went down, I forgot to breathe.
The players line up. Helmets off. Sticks raised.
Gabriel skates a slow circle near center ice.
Then he looks up.
Not toward the bench.
Not toward Mason.
Toward the family section.
His eyes search.
They find me.
It isn't dramatic. He doesn't smile widely. He doesn't wave.
He just looks at me.
And I know.
I know he's looking for me.
We make our way down toward the family lounge outside the locker room. It’s crowded. Loud. Controlled chaos. Players' families and partners gathered in small clusters. Phones out. People checking watches while they wait for the guys to come out.
Mason comes out first, already showered and dressed in a team tracksuit.
He runs a hand through his damp hair.
“You look pale,” he says, narrowing his eyes at me.
“You got hit,” I counter.
“I’m fine.”
“So did he.”
Mason’s mouth twitches.
“He always does,” he says. “He’ll ice it and pretend he doesn’t need stitches.”
“That’s reassuring.”
He studies me for a second longer than necessary.
Then he bumps my shoulder lightly and moves down the hall.
Gabriel steps out a minute later, also showered and changed into team sweats.
His hair is still damp. A faint red mark already blooming along his jaw. His knuckles look worse up close.
He scans the crowd again.
When his gaze lands on me, something in his shoulders drops.
He walks straight toward me.
Not toward Mason.
Not toward the coaches.
Me.
“You good?” he asks quietly.
I blink. “You’re asking me?”
He nods once. “Yeah.”
“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
“You don’t look fine.”
I open my mouth to argue.
Then I close it.
“You stayed down longer than I liked,” I admit.
His expression shifts. Softer.
“It’s hockey,” he says gently.
“I know.”
I do know.
I grew up in rinks.
I know what this sport costs.
But knowing it and feeling it are two different things.
He lifts his hand like he might touch my face.
Stops.
Crowd.
People watching.
Instead, his fingers brush lightly against my wrist.
Small.
Private.
“You were the first thing I looked for,” he says.
My throat tightens.
“I’m always here,” I say.
It comes out softer than I intended.
He studies me like he is trying to decide something.
“Different tonight,” he says.
“How?”
He holds my gaze.
“Felt different.”
It did.
I don't say that out loud.
Instead, I tilt my head slightly. “Your jaw is going to bruise.”
He huffs a laugh. “You sound like my trainer.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
There is noise around us. Teammates moving past. Laughter. Equipment staff wheeling bags down the corridor. Families greeting players as they come out of the locker room.
And yet it feels like the hallway has narrowed.
Like it's just us.
“You coming home?” he asks.
“Yes, soon,” I say. “I told Jenna I’d relieve her after I checked in with you.”
That word lands.
Home.
He nods slowly.
“Drive safe,” he says.
“You too.”
He takes one step back. Then another.
But his eyes don’t leave mine.
Not until a teammate slaps him on the shoulder and pulls him toward the locker room.
I stand there a moment longer than necessary.
I’ve been to hundreds of games.
I’ve watched Mason bleed and get back up.
I’ve watched Gabriel take hits and shake them off.
But tonight, when he went down, my heart went with him.
I didn't think about the plan.
I didn't think about optics.
I thought about losing something I have barely begun to understand.
The arena empties slowly behind me.
I walk toward the exit, the echo of skates still ringing in my ears.
He looked for me first.
Not because he had to.
Because he wanted to.
And somehow that matters more than any hit he took on the ice tonight.