I wouldn’t say that I’m a pessimist or an optimist.Not even a realist, really, because I believe in magic.Not the fairytale kind, but the small, ordinary kind that hides inside moments and people.The kind you almost miss if you’re not paying attention.
I definitely wouldn’t have called myself a romantic.
But maybe I am.
Because when I love, I love hard.Quietly.Completely.
And yet I don’t think I’ve ever beenin love, not the way books or songs describe it.Not the kind that steals your breath and rearranges your soul until you don’t know where you end and the other person begins.
So, when I look back on the last two weeks of July, sitting on my porch swing with my coffee cooling between my palms, I can’t help the sigh that escapes me.
The only word that fits islovelyand maybe a little terrifying.
Because these feelings didn’t crash in like a storm, they came like sunrise, slow and quiet until the world was lit before I even realized it.
I think it started on the ice, or maybe that's just when I recognized them.
Kenzie and I sat high up in the bleachers, the air sharp with cold, our coffees steaming between our palms.The guys’ voices echoed against the rafters, laughter bouncing off the boards.But when Nate skated out, everything shifted.
It wasn’t that he was louder or faster.It was as if the air seemed to bend around him.
His focus was razor-sharp, his movements efficient and precise.He wasn’t performing for anyone; he was justthere, completely in control, like the ice belonged to him and he to it.
I’d never seen him like that.Not the charming, teasing version.Not the man who grinned across my tailgate.
This was Nate stripped down to instinct.
Something about it felt different.Like seeing the inside of someone’s soul through motion.And for the first time, I understood why people followed him, why they called himCaptain.
Kenzie nudged me, whispering, “He’s different out there, huh?”
I tried to keep my voice casual.“He’s good.”
“Good?”She laughed, rolling her eyes.“Tessa, that’s like calling the ocean damp.”
When practice ended, the sound of skates scraping the ice and sticks tapping in rhythm filled the air.The guys were all jokes and sweat and adrenaline, tugging off helmets, shoving each other, laughing loudly.
And then Nate looked up.
He didn’t smile; he just found me in the stands, eyes locked, holding mine with a quiet intensity before turning away.
“Come meet the rest of the crew,” he said later, voice rough and low.
The locker hall smelled like soap and sweat.The three men who stepped forward didn’t posture the way I expected; they were calm, grounded, watching me like they already knew who I was.
The first was tall, built with quiet strength.
“Gabe Duarte,” he said, shaking my hand with a firm, deliberate grip.His eyes, deep amber and calm, lingered a moment longer than felt casual.“Good to finally meet you, Tessa.”
Then came a mountain of a man, shoulders broad enough to block the light.
“Misha Petrov,” he said, his thick accent softening his words.He pulled me into a bear hug before I could react.“You are smaller than I thought.”
I blinked up at him.“Excuse me?”
He laughed, the sound huge and warm.“They talk about you like you fight bulls.I thought you’d be… bigger.”
I grinned, nudging him.“I make up for it in attitude.”
