Chapter 2
MILA
There’s something about a packed arena at a home opener that hits like a shot of espresso to the soul.
The lights go down, the crowd rises up, and the bass drops to nightclub-level throbbing.
Smoke machines hiss from the entrance to the player’s tunnel and the announcer’s voice rumbles through the arena as if he’s about to introduce royalty.
It’s so melodramatic, and Mila adores every second of it.
“I love this part,” she shouts over the thumping music.
Natalie grins beside her, radiant in one of Jake’s old jerseys with the sleeves rolled up. “It’s opening night. Go big or go home.”
She takes a swig of her beer as the announcer’s voice booms through the speakers. “Introducing this year’s Hartford Whalers.”
The crowd cheers as the players begin skating out one by one—no helmets, faces lit by the spotlight.
“At right wing, introducing number nineteen, Jesse Mitchell!”
The place erupts.
Natalie cups her hands around her mouth and whoops. “That’s my baby brother!”
A group of girls a few rows ahead nearly combust, one of them shrieking, “WE LOVE YOU, JESSE!” while jumping up and down like she’s spotted a boy band member in the wild.
Jesse skates out with that signature grin Mila’s known since he had braces and a Pokémon backpack—except now, the braces are gone and the kid looks like he could model for an energy drink ad.
“Damn,” Mila mutters under her breath.
Natalie glances over, smirking. “Right? He’s filled out.”
“Filled out?” she scoffs. “He looks like he could bench-press a small car.”
Mila watches as Jesse runs a hand through his messy, sandy brown curls, flashing an easy grin at the jumbotron like he knows exactly how good he looks. His caramel-brown eyes practically twinkle. Show-off.
Her honorary little brother is…hot?
A tiny thrill zips up her spine, followed immediately by a full-body cringe.
Absolutely not.
This is the same kid she used to babysit. The one who once cried over a peanut-butter and jelly cut the wrong way. The one she made mac and cheese for because he wasn’t allowed near the stove.
Mila shakes her head. “I feel old.”
Natalie sighs. “Same.”
The announcer barrels on, voice rising with theatrical flair.
“On defense…number fourteen…Theo Tillllllbury!”
He holds the l in Tilbury like the name itself is impressive.
Mila leans forward as Theo glides out of the tunnel.
He’s tall—well over six feet—with the kind of lean, muscular build that says quiet strength rather than showy bravado.
His thick, chocolate brown hair is tousled, curling slightly at the ends.
There’s a dusting of dark stubble along his sharp jaw, and his hazel eyes are watchful as they flick toward the boards.
Unlike the others, he doesn’t flash a grin or ham it up for the crowd. He stares straight ahead, shifting his weight from skate to skate, the faintest pink flush creeping up his cheeks.
Mila bites the inside of her cheek, acutely aware that she’s staring. He’s the kind of handsome that sneaks up on you. Classic and understated. Like an old photograph you can’t stop staring at.
Last season, before Richard entered the picture, Mila had tested the waters with Theo a couple times. The first time was at Christmas dinner at Jesse’s, when she’d offered to get him a drink, letting her hand linger on his forearm in what she considered the universal signal for I’m into you.
Then there was that night at Huckleberry’s, when she’d teased him, asking if he was always so mysterious or just allergic to small talk.
She'd watched his face, hoping for something—a laugh, a comeback, a hint of flirtation.
Instead, she got the ghost of a smile and him blushing into his beer, like he was buying time or maybe just didn't know what to do with her question.
And that was it. No banter. No DMs. Not even a passing wink. Then she got involved with Richard, and her nascent flirtation with Theo took a back seat.
At first, she figured he wasn’t interested. But then she started to notice the blush. The way he tucked his chin when people looked at him too long. The way he seemed more comfortable listening than speaking.
“Poor Theo looks like he wants to melt into the ice,” she says, nudging Natalie with her elbow.
“He’s such a sweetheart, though,” Natalie replies. “He helped Jake rebuild our fence when we moved here.”
Mila raises a brow. “Shirtless?”
Natalie smirks. “Of course.”
“I love a man who is good with his hands.”
They cheer their way through the rest of the lineup, with Mila cat-calling the familiar names with gusto.
Tristan Fleisher, also known as Flea, milks his entrance like a rockstar.
Slovak defenseman Pavel Pekar glides out with his trademark stoicism.
Then comes team jokester Trayvon Carter, who once convinced her that a shot of pickle juice could cure heartbreak.
(It didn’t. But it did burn impressively.)
There are fresh faces, too. A rookie with wide eyes and a nervous grip on his stick, Jean-Paul Bélanger looks like he should still be sitting in a high school algebra class rather than lacing up for professional hockey.
There’s a new goalie, Garrett Tall, whose name feels less like a coincidence and more like a prophecy fulfilled.
He looms in the net with the wingspan of a commercial airliner.
“That guy’s enormous!” Mila squeals, grabbing Natalie’s arm.
“Jake says he played in college.” She grins and puts on a fake baritone. “He’s got real potential.”
The announcer’s voice swells with pride.
“And now—behind the bench for his first game as assistant coach—Jake MacDonald!”
The arena explodes.
Jake steps forward, raising a hand to acknowledge the crowd. His navy sports coat pulls snug across his broad shoulders, and his golden hair is pulled back into a low, clean ponytail. He looks serious. Composed. Every bit the coach he’s become and not the bruiser he used to be.
Natalie’s up on her feet, clapping like her hands are on fire, eyes sparkling, utterly in love. Mila bumps her hip.
“You’re such a hockey wife.”
She beams, not even trying to deny it. “I know. I’ve become one of those bunnies we used to make fun of.”
“Honestly? It looks good on you.”
The game starts, and Mila remembers how much she enjoys watching hockey.
The sound of blades cutting ice, the thunk of the puck hitting the boards, the surge of the crowd rising and falling like a living thing.
Jesse’s flying—fast, aggressive, laser-focused.
Every time he touches the puck, the fans lean in.
Every shot, every pass, feels like something might happen.
“He’s killing it,” Mila says during a shift change.
Natalie nods proudly. “He’s hungry this year.”
Mila settles back into her seat, letting it all wash over her.
The cold air, the scent of popcorn and beer, the scraping sound of skates carving across the rink.
There’s something comforting about it, like slipping into a favorite hoodie.
She fled to Hartford to escape her life, but here, in the presence of people she loves, she feels like she’s come back to herself.
Midway through the third, with the score locked, Theo cuts across the slot and strips the puck clean from an opposing forward, his stick quick and sure.
In the same breath, he threads a sharp pass up the ice to Jesse, who catches it in stride and takes off like he’s been fired from a cannon.
The crowd surges to its feet in one long, collective inhale as he barrels over the blue line, dances around the last defender, and snaps the puck top shelf as if it’s the easiest thing in the world, sending it sailing into the net.
The place explodes. Jesse throws his arms up, grinning like a maniac as Theo and his teammates mob him at the glass. Natalie’s screaming. Mila’s screaming. Somewhere, she thinks a beer gets flung into the air.
By the final buzzer, the Whalers take it 3–2, and Jesse’s the undeniable star of the night—one goal, one assist, and one cocky wink at the camera.
“C’mon, we’ll celebrate at Huckleberry’s,” Natalie says, as they make their way through the crowd.