Goosebumps prickled over my boobs… but his hand never brushed me. He was professional at tantalizing my nerves.
I gazed at him and felt the grip of both the intensity in his eyes and the softness beneath it. How did he manage to make a random Tuesday feel like a frameable memory?
Maybe it was ridiculous, this teenage-romance energy vibrating in my chest. But after weeks of blurred lines, family implosions, new job challenges, and every hard-earned step toward this moment, I was letting myself have this. And if it came with a side of giddy silliness, then so be it.
One night. One movie. One man I hadn’t planned on wanting.
About halfway through the movie, we both started chuckling at the same time. It wasn’t bad, just not for us.
“Do you wanna bail?” I whispered in his ear.
“Thought you’d never ask.”
We slipped out, ducking through the aisle and out into the night. The parking lot was nearly empty, the theater’s lights casting everything in soft blues and purples. Under those lights, the lot felt like a stolen thrill, our little cinematic escape.
At my car, I turned to face him. His eyes under his baseball cap took a mysterious edge. For a beat, we stood there, looking, holding.
Then he stepped in, one hand cupping my jaw, the other sliding to my waist with an ease that felt practiced in the best way. His mouth met mine in a kiss that was deep and certain, hot and wanting. My knees went soft, and my butt pressed against the car for balance. My fingers curled in his hair as he leaned in harder, until there wasn’t a breath of space left between us.
When we finally came up for air, I was flushed, breathless, and dazed from too little sleep and too much feeling. He held me close, his forehead resting lightly against mine. His chest rose and fell in time with mine, our breaths slowing their rhythm.
“Logan knows,” he murmured. “Which means the team knows. Just be yourself. The world can adjust.”
His hand moved slowly up my side, over my ribs, then back down again in a teasing, steady rhythm, as if he was trying to memorize me with his palms.
His lips closed on mine again, a small, breathy noise slipped out of my mouth. His thumb traced under the hem of my top, and my body answered all on its own, rising to meet him. My arms tightened around his shoulders as mouths moved in sync, a muscle memory I hadn’t known I had.
His citrus scent was everywhere, dizzying, and I didn’t want it to end. Neither of us moved; neither of us wanted the night to end, but eventually we had to separate.
“Good night,” I whispered, my voice barely intact.
“‘Night,” he said, low and rough, still holding the hem of my shirt.
I slipped into the driver’s seat and pulled away, hands trembling a little as if he’d shaken me from the inside out. I watched him in the mirror until the corner took him from sight. My cheeks hurt from grinning all the way home.
The following night was Wednesday’s most anticipated first playoff game against Dallas.
I stood rinkside at Golden State Arena, lights blazing. The blur of shouting echoed off the boards, and skates’ marks etched lines down the tunnel. My team jacket felt almost like armor, pride stitched into every seam, the weight of belonging pressed gently against my shoulders.
This morning, I’d traded office tables and slack threads for the real thing: rinkside duties. And it came with adrenaline and proximity.
I lifted my phone and caught a quick-swipe video of the full arena, sending it to Erica. She was going to lose her mind when she found out I was officially Sean’s girlfriend. I’d saved the full reveal for a video call, but just picturing her reaction made me laugh under my breath.
But the grin didn’t last.
Excitement has a way of shining a light on the nerves I keep tucked away. This was where people looked, where cameras swung, where Sean’s world and mine collided in real time.
I’d been in this arena countless times, but tonight it felt off-kilter, like I’d stepped onto a stage I knew, only the script had been rewritten.
All because of Sean.
He was all business on the bench, barking instructions, pacing in that calm-but-lethal way that made players snap to attention. Last night, he’d asked me to be his girl, and I’d answered as if it was no big deal. But now…here I was, spiraling. A paid employee with a development badge clipped to my waist and a front-row seat to the most conflicting identity crisis of my adult life.
My gaze flicked up to the family section of the stands. The VIP area sat a few rows above, well positioned for the cameras to pan for reaction shots. I spotted Sadie, Asher’s girlfriend, first—full glam leather jacket, laughing at something Reena said. Reena, in a fitted Tahoe West bomber and tight curls, sipped something from a clear tumbler, looking every bit the confident fiancée of the team’s star defenseman.
I would be sitting there, front row, center frame. The wives’ and girlfriends’—WAGs seats. The ones with the ring-light glow, the perfect blowouts, the private access passes for games and after games. Sean’s words echoed in my head,Just be yourself. The world can adjust.But it wasn’t that easy when the cameras were this close, and your face could end up on a broadcast freeze-frame.
A flush crawled up the back of my neck. Me, waving politely when the jumbotron caught me clapping? Nope. That wasn’t me. I wasn’t polished enough for that kind of optic. This was press, spotlight, and a whole world-level exposure. I shrank back just thinking about what the press might say:Secret Weapon: The Woman Driving the Coach in the NHL.
