The clerk lays out trays. I point to a classic round cut, platinum band. Clean, brilliant, stupidly expensive. The kind you don’t fake with.
Joy stares. “You can’t be serious?—”
I catch her palm before she can yank it away. Slide it on. Perfect fit. For a second, everything stops. The airport noise fades. My heart kicks once, hard.
This is supposed to be fake. A prop. But looking at that diamond on her finger, I feel like I just jumped out of a plane without checking for a parachute.
“Do you like it?”
She blinks, startled. For once, she doesn’t have a comeback. “It’s...beautiful,” she says finally, voice unsteady.
Good enough for me. My card hits the counter before she can protest again. The clerk beams and hurries away.
Joy stares at her hand. “This is too much.”
“It’s a loan,” I lie. “We’ll return it after.”
But even as I say it, something possessive and primitive coils in my chest. The idea of her taking this ring off—of another man putting a different one on—makes my jaw lock.
She keeps staring at it, working through an equation only she can see. I take her wrist, thumb settling over it.
“For the girl who counts slow, slow, quick-quick,” I grin. “And makes me look like I know what I’m doing.”
Her throat works. “Wesley?—”
“It’s just a prop,” I lie. “For the show.”
But the way her pulse jumps under my thumb says she knows I’m full of shit.
Boarding call.Jet bridge. We turn left. First class.
Her eyebrow lifts. “This is how we fly?”
“I play professional hockey,” I say simply.
We settle into wide leather seats. Champagne flutes wait on the console. She buckles in, still staring at the band.
The plane hums back from the gate. She shifts, thigh brushing mine. Doesn’t move away. Neither do I.
My phone buzzes with a text from Dmitri:
Big Russian: Saw you leave the arena with Joy. Bags packed. Are you eloping?
I nearly choke on air.
Me: What? No.
Big Russian: Then what?
I glance at Joy, her hand with the ring resting on the armrest between us.
Rule three: no telling teammates.
But I also can’t lie to Dmitri. The man has a sixth sense for bullshit.
Me: Going home. She’s meeting my family.
Big Russian: !!!!!
