Pride warms my chest, and I can’t stop smiling.
“You look good in it,” Anna says, clearly approving. “Like, really good. Logan’s going to die when he sees you.”
“He already saw me before he left for warm-ups,” I admit. “He almost didn’t make it to the game.”
“I get it.” Miranda laughs. “Miles is the same way.”
Anna nods. “It’s a possessive thing, gets them all hot and bothered.”
I run my hand over the number on my chest, feeling the stitched fabric beneath my fingers. It’s surreal—being in a VIP box at a professional hockey game with a diamond ring on my finger and my fiancé’s name across my back.
I never could have imagined my life looking like this.
“You okay?” Anna asks softly, noticing my expression.
“Yeah,” I say, blinking back unexpected tears. “I’m just... really happy.”
“Good,” Miranda says, squeezing my arm. “You deserve to be happy. Now come on, the best part of the game is about to start.”
“Really?” I question. “It seems early.”
Anna takes a seat next to me. “The stretching happens early, and it’s so…”
Miranda cuts in, and the pair finish the sentence in unison, “Hot.”
The girls weren’t wrong about the warm-ups. Logan’s moves made me long to be back in our condo alone.
Finally, the buzzer sounds, and the Cranes take the ice.
I lean forward in my seat, scanning the players until I find number 91. Logan glides onto the ice with an ease that takes my breath away—fluid, confident, and completely in his element. He moves like the ice was made for him.
And his face. God, his beautiful face. He’s grinning—that wide, boyish smile that I can’t get enough of. This is Logan in his pure happiness. He looks relaxed and confident. The weight of the world disappears when he’s on the ice. Out there, he’s just a hockey player doing the thing he was born to do.
Watching him like this does something to me.
I love him. I knew that already. But watching Logan play hockey—watching him be genuinely, completely happy—makes that love swell to a size I didn’t know was possible.
The first period is electric. The arena is deafening, thousands of fans screaming and stomping their feet, and I find myself on my feet more than I’m sitting. Miranda and Anna teach me the rules of the game. Logan has tried, in preparation for the season. Admittedly, it’s easier to comprehend when I can see it all in action.
Logan scores in the second period—a stunning goal from just inside the blue line that has the entire arena erupting. I scream so loud my throat burns, jumping up and down and waving my pom-poms like a maniac. On the ice, Logan raises his stick to the crowd and then—even from this distance—I can tell he’s looking up at our box, looking for me.
I press my hand to my chest and smile, hoping he can see.
Halfway through the third period, the door to the VIP suite opens. A woman steps inside, and the room goes quiet. It’s not dramatic, but there’s definitely a subtle shift, a collective awareness that settles over the group like a change in air pressure.
I notice it immediately. Miranda’s smile freezes for just a second. Anna glances toward the door and then quickly looks away, her expression unreadable.
The woman is tall—easily five ten—with long, dark brown hair that falls in sleek waves past her shoulders. She’s gorgeous in an effortless way, the kind of beautiful that makes you do a double take without meaning to. High cheekbones, sharp jaw, full lips. She’s dressed casually but perfectly—fitted dark jeans, a cream-colored cashmere sweater, and ankle boots that probably cost more than my first car would have, if I’d ever owned one. Something about the way she carries herself—confident, unhurried—makes people move out of her way without her having to ask.
She scans the room with dark eyes, offers a polite but distant smile to a few people, and heads toward the bar.
“Who is that?” I ask Miranda quietly, leaning in.
Miranda follows my gaze and takes a small sip of her champagne. “That’s Kelsey Albright. Coach Albright’s daughter.”
“The coach’s daughter?” I repeat, watching her pour a glass of white wine with practiced nonchalance.
“Mm-hmm.” Miranda’s tone is careful—not quite guarded, but measured. “She hasn’t been around in years. Like years. Nobody really knows what the story is there.”
