We change in the back seat of the SUV, removing the outfits we wore for our last meeting in California and putting on our Cranes gear.
I check my phone for the time. “Oh good. They haven’t started warming up yet. If we’re lucky, we’ll make it for the best part.”
“We can’t miss it. Let’s run.” Anna grins.
The driver drops us off at the back door, which regular fans don’t have access to. The security guard gives us a nod and lets us right in.
Jaden has secured a route to our box seats that doesn’t require us to come into contact with anyone besides employees. I love that Anna can live somewhat of a normal life here and not have to be followed around by a bodyguard.
The VIP box seats have some new faces as players rotate who they give their tickets to. Mr. and Mrs. Applebottom, who never miss a game, greet us with wide smiles and hand each of us a fruity beverage.
“You almost missed it,” Mrs. Applebottom says with a smirk.
“Believe me, I know. We raced to get here on time,” I say.
The Applebottoms own the infamous orchard where Jaden took Anna on their first date, and where they’re going to be wed in September. Jaden befriended them years ago and gifted them their box seats. I know I’m not the only one who considers themextended family at this point. Their joy is contagious, and their genuine kindness is unmatched.
Mrs. Applebottom, always colorful, went all out with her attire today. She clipped streaks of navy hair into her salt-and-pepper bob and is wearing enough navy and white beads around her neck to supply a Mardi Gras parade. She has jerseys with the numbers of every guy on the team, but tends to wear Jaden’s number two the most.
Anna holds out the hem of her jersey and faces Mrs. Applebottom. “We’re twinning. Though I’m lacking in the hair and bead department.”
Mrs. Applebottom grabs one of her navy-blue extensions and twists it between her fingers. “Do you like them? I thought they looked young and hip.”
“Very hip,” Anna replies with a sincere smile.
The hairpieces would look silly on anyone but Mrs. Applebottom. She’s so authentically weird that it’s adorable.
She grabs some beads and pulls them off. “I wore extra to share. Here you go,” Mrs. Applebottom says, handing both Anna and me some beads. “Did you girls have a good trip?”
“Thank you,” I say, taking some beads and putting them on. “We did. It was very productive.”
“It was great,” Anna says. “Happy to be home.”
“Oh, I bet. There’s no place like home,” Mrs. Applebottom says as the lights in the arena dim. She claps her hands together. “It’s time!”
Hype music blasts through the arena’s speaker system, and the arena flashes with different colored lights as the men of the Crane hockey team skate onto the ice. The fans cheer loudly. Anna, the Applebottoms, and I—who fill up the front row of the VIP box—jump and cheer as the guys skate around the ice.
I cup my hands around my mouth and yell, cheering on the guys.
And then they start stretching… I don’t know what it is about men dressed in full pads, a uniform, and a helmet stretching on the ice, but it’s intoxicating. Logically, it shouldn’t be sexy. It really shouldn’t. They’re so padded up with their gear you can’t see their bodies, but it does something to change my brain chemistry, and while I have no intention of getting with any of the guys, it makes me feral as hell. I scream louder.
When they get on their hands and knees and stretch their legs out and back in, thrusting against the ice, Anna, Mrs. Applebottom, and I raise our hands, cheer, and jump around like lunatics. The thrusting stretch never gets old. I’m sure the motion alleviates injuries by stretching out some major muscle groups, but to me, it’s the best aphrodisiac. Not that I need one, given that I’m doomed to be alone forever.
My gaze locks on Miles as his pelvis lowers toward the ice and lifts. My heart pounds, and my skin burns with heat. I grab my jersey and flap it rapidly, trying to circulate some of the arena’s cool air against my skin.
We’ve appreciated this stretching ritual every game, and—except for the first one, when I didn’t know any of the players and my eyes just took in the entire scene—my attention is always focused on Miles. He’s the one I know best and my friend. It makes sense that my eyes would be drawn to him. But this time, it feels different, as if I shouldn’t be staring so hard. Now that we live together, the ogling doesn’t seem as innocent. The way my body is reacting doesn’t feel friendly. It feels like more. And it can’t feel like more.
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
MILES
The Fire Station is already humming by the time I roll in—brick walls radiating heat from the crowd, rafters strung with mismatched jerseys, the tin ceiling catching every cheer and hurling it back down like confetti. After a win, this place always feels alive—louder, warmer, drunk on victory.
“Hollywood!” Beckett’s voice booms over the noise as I snake through the crowd. He’s behind the bar as he owns it, sleeves shoved to his elbows, pouring three beers at once with the swagger of a man who believes he can multitask anything—including fatherhood, hockey, and apparently… bad bartending.
“Since when are you licensed to be back there?” I call.
