“Which is saying something,” Isla adds, “because most hockey players have the emotional range of a rock.”
“True. And not the pretty amethyst kind of rock. We’re talking chalky grey rocks they use for driveways,” Peyton says, reaching over to steal a handful of popcorn from Cammy.
They dissolve into laughter, and I find myself laughing with them, shoulders loosening inch by inch.
This feels… easy.
No one’s measuring me up as competition for a spot in a show. No one’s calculating what they can gain from proximity. No one cares who my father is or what kind of alliances he could broker.
They just want to know if I want more chips and whether I prefer red or white.
“All right, ladies,” Penelope announces, grabbing the remote as the pregame show flips to live coverage. “Let’s do this.”
I’ve been around hockey my entire life, technically. Luka played. My father sponsored teams when it was strategically useful. And we’ve always watched the Olympic team play since I can remember. There were jerseys and photos and trophies.
But I’ve never actually sat and watched a full game by choice.
It turns out… I’ve been missing something.
The speed alone is staggering. Bodies flying across ice at impossible angles, stopping on a dime, turning and weaving through chaos. It’s messy and violent and somehow exquisitely precise all at once. Every shift is a choreographed risk.
And then there’s Scottie.
The camera finds him often. His big frame, commanding presence, and that focused determination etched into every line of his face. He doesn’t just skate; he moves like every inch of his body knows exactly why it’s there.
He’s not just some big guy smashing around on blades. He anticipates—reading plays before they happen, dropping into lanes, making space where there wasn’t any, setting up otherguys for shots. When the commentators say his name, there’s respect in it, and a little part of me tingles with shared glory, because it’s now my name too.
Our line jumps to their feet so often that I lose track of how many times I put my wine down and forget where I left it.
And when he scores in the second period, a quick catch, a sharp cut past a defender, and then a wrist shot that rockets into the top corner of the net, my reaction isn’t delicate or composed at all.
I’m on my feet, cheering with everyone else before I realize what I’m doing.
Heat rushes to my cheeks, but I can’t take my eyes off the replay on the screen.
He looks… happy. Not the easy, teasing smiles he throws around at home, but a bright, wild joy that lights him up from the inside. This is where he’s meant to be—that much is obvious. And the idea that we might have to try for immigration status and risk his future if it goes wrong can’t be an option. I have to get this visa renewal. He’s done too much for me to risk his career and prison time to help me.
He looks the way I feel in the middle of a performance when everything falls into place. The music and movement, and muscle memory merge together.
“You okay?” Isla asks quietly once I sit back down.
“Yes.” I swallow. “I just… didn’t expect him to be so…”
“Hot?” Peyton offers, with a smirk.
Yes, definitely that, but…
“Talented,” I say primly.
“I’m sure he is,” Cammy says. “How was the wedding night? Was it awkward the first night–”
“Or was it wild?” Vivi cuts in.
The girls all practically giggle.
My wine goes down the wrong pipe.
I cough, eyes watering, while they all laugh.
