The lanyard dangles from her neck, swinging gently with her breath. It’s an officialNHL Familypass, laminated and gold-rimmed. It looks right against the front of my jersey—my professional jersey—hanging half to her knees. My name on the back. Number 13 on the sleeves.
The sight hits me harder than any open-ice check. Every time.
The sleeves are rolled up so her hands are free, fingers tucked into the front pockets of her jeans. The hem of the jersey slides just over her hips. I know exactly what’s under it, because I watched her get dressed in our penthouse this morning,drinking coffee while she listed off anatomy terms I’ll never remember.
She’s not smiling now. Not really.
Her mouth is soft, slightly parted, her eyes dark and bright and locked on me with an intensity that feels like a hand around my throat. Possessive. Proud. Steady.
The noise, the team, the playoffs—all of it drops away.
There’s just her.
I stop in front of her, close enough that the bottom bar of my cage is eye-level with her nose. The cold of the ice spills in from the gate at my back; warmth radiates from her.
“You’re supposed to be in the suite,” I say.
The words come out rough and low, my voice distorted a little by the mask.
“The suite is boring,” she whispers. “Too many suits. Not enough you.”
She tips her chin up. The bruise I put on her collarbone last night—a deep, circular mark my mouth worked there on purpose—peeks over the stretched collar of my jersey before the fabric falls back into place.
She remembers our deal. The one she made years ago in a college kitchen, daring me not to show up in my own life.
Begin with me. End with me.
She steps in, closing the last inch between us.
Her small, bare hands reach up and wrap around the bottom of my cage, fingers curling into the metal. The gesture is possessive as hell. It lands like a claim, right in the center of my chest.
She tugs me down.
I go easily, all that weight, all that muscle, folding for her without a fight.
She rises onto her toes. Her breath hits the cold metal, fogging it for a second, leaving a little crescent of condensation.
She presses her mouth to the painted grille, right over my lips, the kiss landing cold and hard through steel. It doesn’t matter.
I feel it everywhere.
Heat slices down my spine, sharp and instant.
“Begin with me,” she whispers.
My hand, wrapped in thick padding and leather, comes up instinctively. I press my blocker over her fingers, flattening her small hand against the bars, pinning her there for just a beat.
“Always,” I breathe back.
The word puffs white against the mask.
Her eyes soften. The haunted edge that lived there when we met is long gone.
Straightening slowly, my hand slides off hers. My feet move toward the gate. Stepping onto the ice, the cold slides up through my blades. The familiar hiss of steel on fresh-cut ice is a song my bones know by heart. Gliding backward toward the crease, I turn once to look back down the length of the rink.
She’s still there by the wall. She lifts one hand, two fingers pressed against her own lips, then pointed at me.
Finish it.
