The horn sounds. Players spill off the bench. Gloves collide. Helmets bump. Fans scream our names like we’re legends.
But all I see is her watching me walk off the ice.
And she’s not furious anymore.
She looks…affected.
Good.
Because I’m coming for her.
And she knows it.
***
The tunnel after the game is wild with helmets clattering, sticks dropping, and voices echoing.
Dex appears first, jabbing a finger into my ribs. “THAT WAS FOR HER. Don’t lie. Half the bench made whale noises when you tapped that glass.”
Colby groans dramatically. “Bro, the glass-tap? Subtle as a bulldozer wearing neon.”
Mason pats my back. “Congratulations. You’ve officially crossed into leading-man energy. Write poetry next.”
I shake them off and head toward the locker room.
Because she’s waiting.
Arms crossed. Jaw tight. Eyes lit with wildfire.
And the second those eyes lock onto mine, my pulse spikes in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with hockey.
“Explain,” she snaps.
I lift a brow. “Explain what?”
“That,” she gestures sharply toward the arena. “Whatever that display was. Territory? Ego? A mating dance? Because fans are currently arguing whether it was romantic or unhinged.”
“Both,” Dex calls from somewhere behind us.
Annabelle ignores him.
I step closer, lowering my voice. “Why are you mad? Because I scored? Or because I looked at you after?”
Her breath stutters, softer than a whisper, like she did not expect wanting me to hit this hard.
That tiny reaction is gasoline.
I move closer, not fast, slow and intentional, giving her every second to stop me. She does not.
My hand settles at her waist, fingers sliding beneath the edge of her blazer like I have been waiting to touch her again since that first damn kiss.
Her back meets the wall with the smallest exhale, like she secretly wanted nowhere else to go.
We collide.
Not soft. Not gentle. Not careful.
Teeth, lips, heat, breath, weeks of denial snapping like tension wire. My tongue finds hers, slow at first, testing. Then deeper. Confident. Claiming.
