“Why don’t we go get in the car?” he adds, rising to his full height. “Let Mommy handle that part.”
Penny tilts her head, suspicious. “Like a trophy?”
Cast chuckles softly, reaching down to take her hand. “Exactly like a trophy.”
The kids squeal, thrilled by the idea, and rush toward the exit. Cast lingers just long enough to glance back at me, his green eyes glinting with knowing warmth. “Don’t take too long,” he says, and then, with that trademark smirk: “You’ll melt the ice.”
He winks before turning to shepherd the kids out, leaving me alone in the tunnel, heart pounding in my chest.
The muffled sounds of the post-game celebration echo beyond the door—the hiss of showers, the clatter of sticks, the rumble of deep voices thick with adrenaline and triumph. Laughter rolls through the corridor like thunder, and the air hums with sweat, soap, and ice.
I linger for a moment near the entrance, heart drumming, and when I step out, a few of the guys still lingering in the main locker room spot me.
“Hey, Willow!” one of them calls, lips quirked up as he peels off his pads.
“Looking good in green!” another hollers from across the benches, and a chorus of laughter follows, good-natured and too loud in the tiled space.
“Careful, boys,” a deeper voice chimes in, “captain’ll have your sticks for kindling if you keep that up.”
It’s Kelsey, one of Damien’s closest teammates—broad-shouldered, towel around his waist, red hair still dripping. He’s the kind of man who looks like the All-American boy next door. There’s a small cut blooming red along his cheekbone, and when he notices me watching, he grins, easy and disarming.
“Hell of a game, huh?” he says, slinging his gear into his locker. “Damien’s been skating like a man possessed since the holidays started. Guess you’re his secret weapon.”
“More like his caffeine,” I say, smiling despite myself. “He forgets to breathe if I’m not in the stands.”
Kelsey laughs, shaking his head. “Whatever you’re doing, keep doing it. We need that shot if we’re gonna make the playoffs next year.”
“Noted,” I reply lightly, and he winks before ducking into the showers with a wave of steam trailing after him.
The rest of the team’s chatter fades behind me—half-teasing whistles, a few good-natured“night, Willow!”calls—and I wave them off with a small smile, cheeks warming as I clutch Damien’s spare jersey tighter against my chest.
It’s his home jersey—black, silver, and deep forest green, the fabric slick and cool under my fingers. His number sprawls across the back in white, bold and familiar. When I pull it fromthe locker, the faint scent of him drifts up—soap, leather, and that clean, metallic chill of the rink itself.
For a moment I just hold it, pressing it against my chest. Even with the new softness the pregnancies have given me—hips wider, stomach faintly rounded—it will hang loose, swallowing me whole, brushing the tops of my thighs like something that isn’t mine but always fits.
I breathe in the scent again until it burns, then slip it over my head. The fabric slides against my skin with a whisper.
My boots click softly against the tile as I make my way toward the private corridor—the one only the captain uses. The echoes of laughter and running water fade behind me, replaced by the low hum of the ventilation system and the rhythmic thud of my heartbeat.
The smell hits me first—the sharp tang of salt from sweat, the faint chemical bite of rubber, a trace of Irish Spring soap cutting through it, and underneath it all, that unmistakable ash-and-winter scent that clings to Damien no matter how many showers he takes. It’s him in every season—clean, smoky, alive.
Before he can see me, I duck into the small alcove by the doorway and trade my outfit—black tennis skirt, green cropped jersey—for his home jersey. The fabric is cool when it slides over my skin, whispering down my body until it catches at my thighs. I leave on my over-the-knee boots, the ones he likes, the contrast of bare skin between leather and hem enough to make my pulse stutter.
When I step forward, the door swings open before I can knock. Damien fills the frame—hair damp, chest bare, sweatpants hanging off of his hips and the gleam of victory still clinging to him like heat. His gaze catches on me, lingers, and that slow, wolfish smile spreads across his face as if he’s been waiting for this exact moment all night.
“You changed fast,” he teases, voice low and hoarse.
“Well I thought a certain hockey star was in need of celebrating with his number one groupie,” I murmur, stepping closer.
He drags his eyes over me, lingering where the jersey clings to the faint curve of my stomach. The grin deepens, dangerous now. “You know what that does to me, trouble—seeing you in my colors.”
“Guess you’ll just have to show me.”
He laughs softly, a sound roughened by heat and adrenaline, and tugs me in by my scarf until I’m pressed against the solid wall of his chest. The noise outside fades; all that exists is the taste of salt on his skin and the thud of his heart under my palm.
“Still think I should’ve gone into real estate?” he asks, his breath ghosting over my ear.
“Not when you move like that.”
