Twenty-nine days. And there he was.
During warmups, he skated toward our side of the rink and slowed just enough to glance toward the glass for one perfect second. I didn’t know if he’d seen me or if it was instinct, but I lifted my hand and pressed it flat to the barrier. And then, he did it too. Walker’s glove met the glass opposite mine, a heartbeat of contact, and that was it. That was everything. Every aching day apart, every late-night phone call, every lonely second—worth it.
Before they skated back into the locker room, he came to the glass again, made a heart with his hands, then blew me a freaking kiss.
Fuck my life, I was so gone on this man.
The game started, and the score tilted wildly in New York’s favor somewhere between the first faceoff and the end of the second. Pittsburgh looked tired, sluggish, maybe worn from travel. Walker was sharp and solid, no nerves to be seen. The puck came off his stick with a smoothness that made it look effortless. He’d danced around a defenseman, toe-dragged it like poetry, and sent a crisp pass to his linemate, who buried it in the top corner. The crowd erupted, the row behind us jumping to their feet like someone had fired a starting gun. Taft wriggled in excitement beside me, Bob slapped the glass, and I?—
I just stood there stunned, grinning, my heart nearly bursting with pride. He looked up toward the glass again, and I was already there, palm against the barrier, breath fogging the surface, just in case he was looking.
He celebrated with the team, all huddled in a mass of celebration, and then, he deliberately skated by where we sat and nodded with a grin.
“I’m so fucking glad they called him up,” someone said from behind me during the second break. “Did you see that pass? “
“Gonna be a regular if they’ve got sense.”
“Doesn’t play like he’s spent any time in the minors.”
“Fucking A!”
I stared down at the bench where Walker sat, breathing hard. Sweat darkened his jersey at the collar, and he leaned forward, watching the second line do their job.
That wasmyWalker they were talking about, and I was so damn proud of him.
And after the game -- after the win -- I’d get to hold him again.
The final horn sounded, and the crowd roared, the noise like thunder through the arena. I stood and clapped until my hands stung, my throat raw from cheering. All I saw was Walker.
Helmet off. Hair soaked with sweat. Grinning like a lunatic as he fist-bumped his teammates, his cheeks flushed with exertion. He looked like he belonged out there, with the speed, the intensity, and the damn glow of it all. But then, his gaze swept the crowd, and everything shifted when it landed on me.
He didn’t need to wave. That look said it all.
The post-game chaos was a blur of cheers and fans pouring into the concourse, all of it background noise as I stood frozen just outside the private access door, my pass lanyard clenched in a death grip. Bob and Taft had disappeared somewhere, probably talking hockey with the staff or hitting up concessionsfor celebratory hot dogs since they were heading back to Rochester tonight.
All I could think about was Walker.
It was a long forty minutes before he was out, but when he exited, his hair still damp from the shower and dressed in his suit, he was sex personified. It wasn’t until his eyes landed on me that I swear the world stilled.
“Finn.”
He said it like a prayer, pulling me into him.
I didn’t care if people were watching. I wrapped my arms around him so tightly it might have bruised him, my face pressed to the curve of his neck, and I breathed him in.
“Jesus,” he whispered into my hair. “I missed you so much. Every night. Every morning. Every second.”
I nodded, words locked behind the lump in my throat. “Same. All of it.”
He leaned in, his lips brushing mine in a kiss that wasn’t hurried or heated—it was home. Slow and sure.
“Fans were talking about you in the stands. Said you should stay up. Said you had presence.”
Walker’s breath hitched. “Yeah?” He sounded so damn torn, but if this was where my man was playing, and I wanted to be with him, then maybe it was on me to move to New York.
“Yeah,” I said, smiling. “But I already knew that.”
He laughed, a low, breathless sound that shook between us. “Did you pack for ten days?”
