“Yes. I’m here for the pickup.”
She doesn’t ask which one. Just ducks into the back and returns with a box—small, black, deceptively heavy—setting it onto a velvet mat like it might detonate if she breathes wrong. It might as well. My fingers curl around it, feeling the weight settle into my palm.
“I had it polished this morning,” she says softly, almost reverent. “It’s… perfect.”
It is. A platinum band, wide and clean, no stones, no flash—nothing unnecessary. Just weight. Just promise. Inside the metal, the engraving is simple:#27 × #19. Our numbers. Our line. The beginning and end of every shift—one forged from blood, the other from fire. Mine. His.
I snap the box closed and give a single nod. She doesn’t ask for a signature, doesn’t offer a receipt, just watches as I slide it into my coat and leave without another word. The playoffs are halfway done, we’re deep in the semifinals with two rounds left to bleed through—and he’s still standing.
That little brat tore through the Maulers like they owed him blood. Scored when we needed it. Drew penalties like a sin. Skated like his life was on the line, not the Cup. And every time he hit the ice, I could feel it—that he was mine. Not just because he calls me sir. Not just because he screams for me after games and melts in my lap in the dark.
But because he never stops. Because he wants this more than air. Because he’s earned it.
I don’t need to test him anymore. Don’t need to keep the leash short or pull the reins every time he brats too loud. I know who he is now. What he’s made of. What we’re made of.
This ring? It’s not a gift. It’s a promise. One I’ve been building, quietly and violently, since the second he stepped onto my ice, looked me dead in the eyes and asked to be ruined.
My phone buzzes once. I glance down.
Pup: you still out? i’m cold. come warm me up ??
I smirk.
Little shit.
He’s probably curled under five blankets, one sock on, nothing else. Curls a mess. Lips chapped. Whining into his phone because he misses me and won’t say it out loud. I toss the phonein the passenger seat, shift into gear, and drive. The car’s still warm when I kill the engine. The ring’s heavy in my pocket, burning a shape against my thigh with every step toward the elevator.
The lobby’s quiet. Front desk guy gives me a nod. I press the button, lean against the wall, let my head tip back while the numbers crawl up the panel. Twenty floors. One brat. And a lifetime of silence I’m about to break.
The doors slide open, I step into the apartment and—Jesus Christ—there he is, standing barefoot on the hardwood with one sock slouched low, wearing my old black jersey, number 27 stretched halfway down his thighs and the collar pulled wide from sleep, his hair a mess of dried curls, his mouth pink from biting it, and his eyes lit, feral, and absolutely up to no good.
I don’t even shut the door before he’s moving, slow, grin blooming like a crime scene. His hands go for my coat the second I’m inside—quick, clever, greedy fingers slipping into my pocket before I’ve even shrugged it off.
“What did you get?” he purrs.
I raise a brow. “Brat.”
He bats his lashes. “Curious.”
His hand ghosts over the inside of my coat like a pickpocket in a silk trench coat fantasy. If he wasn’t so obvious, he might’ve gotten away with it. But he’s not built for stealth. Not when he wants something this bad. I feel his fingers brush the box. I catch his wrist before he can pull.
“Pup,” I warn.
He freezes, mouth parting, heat blooming behind his eyes. He’s so predictable. One catch, one growl, and he goes pliant.
I lean in. Kiss him slow,. Bite his bottom lip just enough to make him gasp, then murmur against his mouth. “Get dressed.”
He blinks. “What?”
I smirk, backing off enough to see the confusion dawn. “We have a press conference.”
His jaw drops. “Now?”
“Thirty minutes. They bumped it forward. We’re taking questions before the next series starts.”
“But—” He looks down at himself. At the jersey. The sock. His bare goddamn thighs. “Ijustgot comfy.”
“Yeah, and now you’re getting clothed.” I kiss his cheek once. “Hustle.”
