“Okay,” Bennett says, impressed. “He’s a wall.”
“Mm.” My mouth cooperates, but my stomach flips.
The game turns mean in a fun way. Shoulders into glass, sticks tangled, speed snapping into scrums in the corners. Bennett feeds me soft commentary between sips of his plastic-cup beer. He’s charming and a little cocky and clearly proud of the seats.
“You’re cold,” he says, rubbing my knuckles. “Do you want?—”
The jumbotron heart blooms without warning. Pink floods our section; we’re framed dead center.
“Oh boy,” he laughs. “We’re on.”
There’s a breath where I could shake my head. Instead, I lean in. His mouth is warm, confident, unhurried. The section roars; my lips curve on reflex.
Across the ice, the goalie stalls. Mask angled. A beat, then another. Could be me. Could be the clock. Could be nothing. My pulse doesn’t care.
I stay in the kiss for one more second. Beer on my tongue, heat at my throat. He’s a good man who deserves better than half my attention. But my heart’s in the crease.
The goalie taps his post and resets. The camera cuts to two dudes in banana suits, and the place howls. Bennett pulls back, pleased and oblivious, thumb sweeping my cheek. He’s checking a box and genuinely enjoying it.
“Cute,” he says.
“Adorable,” I manage, pulse still misbehaving.
I glue my eyes to the neutral zone and pretend I don’t feel that stare coming through glass. Pretend this is about a screen kiss and not the way a man in blue can tilt his head and put my entire nervous system on alert.
The first ends scoreless. During the break, Bennett returns with an oversized pretzel and water. He talks about a rescue dog named Ralph and a ski trip. He’s normal in the exact way Liz keeps ordering for me. He laughs easily. He listens. He isn’t trying to shrink me to fit. “I’m glad you came with me,” he says, folding his big hand around mine.
Second period, the Defenders start threading needles. O’Reilly sends a pass that belongs in a museum, and I almost clap. The shot hits iron. The Garden groans. Nate resets in blue paint. Breathe, seal, wait.
At the next TV timeout, he skates a slow arc, water bottle to mask. He tips it back, throat working, eyes scanning the lower bowl. He doesn’t linger long on anything. But when his gaze skims our row, my spine goes straight, and I absolutely do not blink.
He saw the kiss. He knows it’s me.
Fire climbs my neck. Bennett says something about finance, and I nod on a delay because my brain is busy with a math problem from ten summers ago: how fast can a girl shove a memory back into the box it escaped from?
The period ends. Zambonis take their laps. I check my phone hoping it will steady me. A text from Liz blares:Is he hot?? Did you kiss him??I typeYes, and then,Kiss-Cam, sendhelp, and she replies with seventeen knife emojis and,Be the main character.
The third period tightens into a grind. Legs are heavy, edges bite deeper. Nate is flawless until a screen sets up high, a shot threads traffic, and he picks it up a fraction late; the puck slips under his glove, and the red light blooms. The roar hits me. He holds his spot at the top of the crease for one extra beat, small enough to miss unless you know him. He pivots and disappears down the tunnel.
“Tough break,” Bennett says, not devastated. “But what a game.”
“It was.” I keep my voice even so I don’t betray the part of me pacing in a room I locked years ago.
Instead of following the herd straight to Eighth, Bennett steers us toward the VIP club behind glass. Coat check, last drinks, the kind of room where client tickets come with a side of bragging rights. He orders us waters and a beer, hand warm at the small of my back. The bartender drops in a lemon slice.
I smile when someone offers to take our picture and let him tuck me close for it. The air feels charged, or maybe that’s just adrenaline refusing to quit.
We spill onto Eighth Avenue with the crowd, breath fogging white. Bennett stops under a streetlight, smile warm and sure. “I had a great time,” he says, brushing a knuckle along my jaw. “You’re gorgeous.”
“Thank you for a good night.” I smile. And I mean it. He planned, he showed up, he was kind.
He kisses me again, soft, patient, a promise if I want it. My body waits for a spark that doesn’t catch.
“I want to see you again,” he says, hopeful.
“I’m busy this week,” I say, which is true. “Maybe.”
He grins as ifmaybeis his favorite word, hails a cab, andrides with me back to the Upper East Side. At my curb, he kisses my cheek and tells me he’ll text.
