Her grin spread like wildfire. “Oh, girl. Yes, yes, it is. I love watching him play. He’s got that ‘silent assassin’ vibe—cold on the ice, but off it? Straight-up teddy bear, huh?”
I laughed, trying to act casual but failing miserably. “Something like that,” I murmured, nibbling at a piece of popcorn as the screen lit up with the pregame footage.
And just like that, I didn’t feel like I had to pretend anymore. Maybe I wasn’t just tagging along in his world. Maybe I belonged here, too.
The other girls chimed in, and just like that, the spotlight slipped off me. Thank God. They started sharing stories of their guys—raw, ridiculous, real ones that had nothing to do with power plays or penalty minutes.
“Brady tried to cook once,” one of them said, already laughing as she popped a chip in her mouth. “He literally lit a potholder on fire. Called it a ‘controlled experiment in flame-seared flavor.’”
Laughter bubbled up around us like champagne, effervescent and unfiltered. I couldn’t help but join in—how could I not? These girls weren’t intimidating glamazons like I’d feared. They were funny and warm and just… real. Each story chipped away at the nerves that had followed me in like a shadow.
I curled deeper into the corner of the couch, letting myself soak it all in—the shared eye rolls, the little teases, the genuine affection they all had not just for their partners but for each other. For the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like I was intruding. I felt like I belonged.
As the game on-screen continued, my eyes flicked toward the familiar blur of number 91 slicing across the ice. My heart gave a quiet little squeeze. Nikolai, being brilliant and brutal and beautiful out there. But the surprise was how grounded I felt right here, too—surrounded by women who got it. Who got me.
This wasn’t just about being his. It was about finding mine—my people, my place, my voice in a world I never thought I’d be welcome in.
And somehow, it felt like home.
As the puck dropped and the game sprang to life, the energy in the room crackled like static before a storm. The women leaned forward in their seats, eyes glued to the screen, already shouting directions at players like they were on headset comms with the bench. I hesitated for only a second before diving in with them.
It was impossible not to get swept up in the adrenaline. Every pass, every breakaway, every near-goal sent a ripple through the group—a wave of squeals, gasps, and cheers that pulled me along for the ride. My heart pounded as I watched Nikolai move across the ice like he owned it—quick, precise, brutal when needed. He was all sharp lines and focused rage, but somehow it didn’t scare me. It made me proud.
Then came the hit—an explosive shoulder-check that sent an opposing player slamming into the boards. The entire living room jolted.
“Holy hell!” someone yelled, nearly spilling her soda. “The Reaper is not playing tonight.”
“I felt that from here,” another added, wide-eyed.
The women turned toward me in unison, grinning like they’d just discovered my deepest secret. “That’s your man?” one of them asked, eyes dancing. “That hit was filthy.”
A warm blush crept up my neck, but I laughed, unable to stop the pride bubbling inside me. “Yeah,” I said, grinning. “That’s him.”
“Scary on the ice,” Paige chimed in, “but I bet he’s a total softie off it.”
“Wrapped around your finger already,” someone teased. “We can tell.”
Their teasing didn’t sting—it felt… sweet. Like I was being folded into something bigger. A community of women who knew exactly what it meant to love men who moved like lightning and lived in chaos. For the first time in a long time, I wasn’t an outsider. I was one of them.
And as Nikolai skated past the camera, helmet low and jaw set, I couldn’t help but smile to myself. He couldn’t see me cheering. He didn’t know I was watching.
But I was.
And I had never been prouder.
I turned back to the screen just as the second period began, and there he was—Nikolai—skating like he’d been born on ice. Every stride was precise, calculated, yet fluid, like he was part of the rink itself. The intensity in his posture, the way he cut through defenders with effortless control—it was hypnotic. Dangerous, even. But beneath that hard, brutal edge… he was mine. For now, at least. And weirdly, that felt like enough.
Each shift he took on the ice chipped away at my nerves. Surrounded by women who knew this world—who cheered with full-throated joy, who teased each other over jersey numbers and snack preferences—it became easier to let go. Mikel’s voice, his judgments, his cold distance… they didn’t follow me here. They didn’t get a seat on this couch.
The Serpents scored again, and the room erupted into a chorus of high-pitched squeals and triumphant clapping. Paige leapt off the couch and did a little dance that ended with her tripping over a decorative pillow. We all burst into laughter so genuine it filled the entire space, spilling warmth into every corner. These women weren’t just spectators—they were part of the story. And maybe… I could be, too.
By the time intermission rolled around, my cheeks hurt from smiling and my stomach ached from laughing. Someone had passed me a bowl of caramel popcorn and another had shared a ridiculous story about her fiancé trying to use a curling iron as a clothes steamer. I hadn’t realized how badly I needed this—how good it felt to just exist in a room where I didn’t have to prove anything.
Paige tossed a gummy bear at someone across the room and turned to me with a mischievous grin. “You ready for round three, rookie?”
I grinned right back, heart lighter than it had been in weeks. “Born ready.”
And just like that, I was all in—no more shrinking, no more doubting. Tonight, I was part of this world, wrapped in laughter and loyalty, pride and popcorn. Not because I was someone’s girlfriend. But because I belonged.
