“Okay. Then I’ll keep calling him Grant.” She grins. “But I’m going to tell him you’re wearing his jersey. He’s going to be so happy.”
My heart swells. “Do you think so?”
“Mom.” She gives me that look again. “He looks at you the same way you look at him. Like in the movies. He’s definitely going to be happy.”
I reach over and squeeze her hand. “When did you get so smart?”
“I’ve always been smart. That’s how you raised me.”
She’s not wrong. And for such a potentially fraught conversation, she handled it really well.
We pull into the arena parking lot, and I can see the crowd already gathering near the entrance. My nerves ratchet up another notch.
“Ready?” April asks, like she’s the one supporting me instead of the other way around.
“Ready.”
The walk to our usual seats near the ice feels like it takes an eternity. I think I catch a handful of double-takes when people see my jersey, but that’s probably my nerves and overactive imagination conspiring against me.
Half the people here are wearing jerseys, and they aren’t being scrutinized any more than I am.
For now.
The arena starts to fill up as it gets closer to game time. April is happily chattering away about something that happened at school, and I’m really trying to give her my undivided attention, but my eyes keep drifting to the tunnel that leads to the locker room.
The lights dim. Music blares. The crowd roars to life.
And then the Aces skate onto the ice.
My stomach does a complete flip when I spot Grant. Even from here, even in full gear with his mask covering most of his face, I’d recognize him anywhere. The way he moves and carries himself. The way he towers over everyone around him. He’s unmistakable.
And he’s mine.
The team does their warm-up lap, and Grant circles the ice with the others. He’s scanning the crowd, and I know the moment he finds me because he goes completely still for a split second.
Then he changes direction and skates straight toward our section.
My heart starts to pound as he approaches the glass directly in front of us. The people around us notice, craning their necks to see what’s happening.
Grant stops right in front of me. His eyes are fixed on mine, then they move down to the jersey I’m wearing.
The one with his number and last name.
He raises his glove and presses it against the glass. Then, in a move that makes my breath catch, he taps his mask where his lips would be and touches the glass again.
A kiss. There’s no mistaking it.
The crowd around us goes wild with cheers and surprised gasps as everyone turns in their seats and cranes their necks to get a glimpse of Grant Parker’s girl.
Me.
“Is she the one he’s blowing kisses to?” someone behind me asks.
“Is that his girlfriend?”
“She’s wearing his jersey!”
“I didn’t know Parker was seeing anyone.”
