I remember what Dad told me about him. That Aiden could see things on the ice in ways other players could only dream of. Not only see them, but process them, too. He keeps a calm head—Dad knew that from watching video of his time in Salt Lake City. He also talked about his creative skating style—Aiden notonly knows how to create space on the ice, but is brilliant at changing directions, too.
I smile to myself. These are the kinds of conversations I have with my dad. I love hockey. I’ve grown up with him coaching it and two older brothers playing it, and it’s definitely in my blood. My dad respects my knowledge of the game and talks to me like he would anyone on his coaching staff, which I love.
So I know a lot about Aiden Wentworth the defenseman.
But I know nothing about Aiden Wentworth the man.
I hadn’t been present at any of the season-ticket-holder activities because I’ve been busy with my own job for Real Miami FC. I love what I do, but it keeps me very busy. However, the season is over now, so I have more time to do things like this. Go to these fan events to support my dad and the team, and to have a good time.
And maybe get to know Aiden a little bit better.
But as soon as that idea goes through my head, I know it’s something that will never happen. I have to tell Aiden who I am, and the second I do, I’ll see the look of recognition dawn in his eyes. He’ll see me in a whole different lens. Not as the woman he began talking to while picking feathers off her face, but as the coach’s daughter.
Which means there will be an instant barrier put up between us, and our conversation will become friendly chitchat and nothing more.
I sigh. I know the rules. I would never dream of pursuing anything with one of Dad’s players. And I know the players definitely don’t think of pursuing me.
I thoughtfully chew the inside of my cheek as I study Aiden once again, this time as he signs a picture a young woman is holding out to him. He looks down at it, and a sheepish smile passes over his face, as if he’s embarrassed. I wonder if thewoman presented him a picture of when he was younger. That’s a huge social media trend everyone is hopping on right now.
I watch him interact with the fans for a few more minutes, then I decide the time has come to reveal who I am. A bit of sadness washes over me. It would have been nice to flirt with Aiden. Hear more of his clever conversation and see if there could be any kind of spark between us.
But as soon as I say I’m Scarlett Rivershon, that will all disappear.
I wait for the last fan to get a selfie taken with Aiden, then I walk toward him. Aiden’s face lights up, and despite myself, I feel my heart flutter inside my chest.
“You returned,” he says, smiling gently at me.
“I’m a woman of my word,” I say. “But I’m also a woman of bad manners. I haven’t introduced myself to you.”
Aiden’s looks at me with interest. I pause before I deliver the news he’s not expecting to hear. “I’m Scarlett. ScarlettRivershon,” I say slowly. “Scott Rivershon is my dad.”
Now I wait.
“I know,” Aiden says simply.
Wait. Heknows?
“Wyatt pointed you out when we arrived. I was coming over to say hello when that gust of wind blew everything around your face.”
Did I misread the situation? Was he genuinely just talking to me and not flirting? Wow. Maybe I need to hire a dating coach or something if my game has fallen this far off.
“So you know who I am and you still wanted to talk to me?” I ask, incredulous.
“Is that not allowed?” Aiden asks, a concerned look filtering across his gorgeous face. “Does Coach not want us to even talk to you?”
I think on this for a moment.
“I’ve never had the opportunity to find out,” I admit. “Most of the time when I meet a player, we exchange pleasantries, chitchat, and that’s it. No player has ever asked me to come back for more conversation.”
“I feel as if we’ve already met on a different level,” Aiden says. His full lips begin to tip upward into a smile. “I mean, I picked a feather out of your hair. I don’t normally do that when meeting someone for the first time.”
I chuckle at that. “I know, you had the unfortunate timing of meeting me when I was looking like a black swan.”
“Well, black swans are beautiful and elegant. Even if they lose a feather or two,” he adds, grinning at me.
Then I see a dimple appear in his left cheek. Oh, that is really cute. My heart leaps again.
Which is stupid. My heart shouldn’t leap over any smile, compliment, or dimple from a Miami Manatees player.
