“Better.” He hauls me up by the hand. “Shoes, E. We’re going out.”
“I’m not dressed for?—”
“Doesn’t matter.” His voice softens. “You look good.”
I cock a brow. “Your grovel needs work, Leo.”
He smirks. “I’m rusty.”
“Clearly. If this is dumb, I’m billing you my hourly.”
“Deal.” He taps the door with two fingers. “Shoes and a coat. Go exactly as you are.”
I grab my parka, shove my feet into sneakers, and point at him. “One wrong move, and I’m bailing.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, opening the door and waving me through. I roll my eyes and follow.
The car ride is all city hum and Leo’s smug silence. He doesn’t so much as glance at me when I press him again, just taps the wheel in rhythm with whatever’s playing on the radio.
“Not even ahint?” I push.
“Patience,” he says, infuriatingly calm.
We snake through Midtown traffic, neon flashing off the windshield. At first, I think we’re headed downtown, maybe to some late-night diner. But then I notice the gridlock, the swarm of jerseys spilling onto sidewalks, the distant rumble of a crowd that sounds way too big for a bar.
I straighten in my seat, suspicion sharpening. “Leo. Where are we?”
His smile doesn’t falter, eyes fixed ahead.
And then the car swings onto Seventh Avenue, the marquee blazing bright in the night.
My mouth goes dry. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
He smirks. “Told you, you’d thank me.”
The Garden hums before we even step inside, the kind of low electric thrum that climbs your spine and settles in your chest. Fans in jerseys stream through the concourse, chatter rising over the smell of popcorn and beer.
By the time we reach our section, my jaw practically unhinges. The seats are right on the glass—prime real estate where families and girlfriends sit, close enough to feel the boards shake.
I stop short. “How the hell did you get these seats?”
Leo shrugs, annoyingly casual. “Turns out I know a guy.”
It only takes a beat for the penny to drop, and my heart kicks. “A guy in pads and a mask? What’d you do, duke it out behind the Zamboni?”
He huffs a laugh, unbothered. “Couple of words. No broken furniture. You approve?”
“I reserve judgment,” I say, though the corner of my mouth betrays me.
I drop into my seat, still rattled, and that’s when Leo reaches into his jacket. He pulls out a folded Defendersjersey—navy and silver, bold white letters across the back: RUSSO #1.
He holds it out with a wry smile. “Time we all admit what this is and say it out loud. Put it on.”
I arch a brow. “Whatever happened to dating in privacy?”
“Save it for Tuesdays,” he shoots back, nudging the jersey into my hands. “Tonight, we get on board.”
The air sticks in my throat. Cameras sweep the crowd, catching bursts of color and faces. I know exactly what this means: no more half-measures.
