You're okay. You're fine. You're strong.I repeat it to myself until I pull up outside the Rainier Bank Center. At the arena, I throw myself into work because work is safe.
Work is something I can control.
I can smile and make sure everyone has everything they need in order for the night to be a success. I track down a set of keys Ivy lost, help Juliet make press packets, and even film a TikTok with Mollie, the extremely shy social media liaison. She’s the newest hire and barely old enough to drink, which makes her the right age for an influencer.
“Please do this dance with me?” Her words are sweet and shy. “No one else will do it.”
I take pity on her. “Okay. Let me put this stuff down and then I’ll try. No promises that I’ll be any good at it.”
After setting down a carrier tray of coffees and the stack of merch t-shirts I'm running down to the promotions crew, I watch Mollie do a quick dance. It only has a few steps, repeated three times. She looks amazing doing the simple dance. I feel stupid doing it, but I figure she needs help. Most of the players growl at her when they see her coming.
"Is this right?" I ask. I walk through the simple steps of the dance, then finish by looking straight at the camera and doing jazz hands. Mollie laughs and tucks her shiny red hair behind her ear. "You did it perfectly. Most of the other people here in the office won't do my dumb dances."
"They're not dumb if they help introduce more fans to hockey."
She beams at me. "That's what I've been saying! I've been telling Beck that."
"Beck as in Beck Tate? The captain?"
"Co-captain. He shares it with Alex Thorne. God, don't give him more credit than he deserves." Her cheeks turn bright pink. "He's also my big brother. It's kinda how I got this job."
I wave her off. "It seems like you know your stuff. Besides, I don't see anyone else filming dances while they talk about the team." I give her a wink. "Plus, if you're a nepobaby, I'm a double nepo. I got this because of my ex husband."
"It seems like you're working hard." She looks pointedly at the stack of stuff I abandoned. "One nepo to another. I notice the hard work you put in."
My face flames. "Thanks, Mollie. Same." Tilting my head at the t-shirts, I say, "Want to walk down to the tunnel with me? Maybe you can grab one of the players for an interview."
She frowns. "I'll go downstairs with you, but I don't think anybody wants to do an interview. Believe me, I've asked."
Giving her an empathetic glance, I grab my stuff and lead her down to the tunnel. The arena's packed to the gills with roiling, raging fans. I'll never understand how someone can get that excited for a game. People here take hockey so seriously. Mollie splits off, waving, and I head to hand off the coffees and the t-shirts to the very grateful promo team.
Then I walk into the tunnel, where I look for Silas.
Silas is back on the bench tonight. Not playing, just dressed in his suit, helmet sitting in his lap, shoulder heavily taped under his jacket. His dirty blond hair's pulled back in a low bun, emphasizing the sharp angles of his face. That tailored charcoal suit fits him perfectly, stretched across broad shoulders even with the bandaging underneath. He looks every inch the professional athlete. Polished, controlled, impossibly handsome. But I can see past the Ice Man facade everyone buys into. The stiffness when he shifts positions gives him away. The way he rolls his shoulder like it's bothering him makes me wince.
People call him Ice Man like it's who he is. Cold. Unfeeling. A machine built for defense. I watch the micro-expressions that flash across his face when he thinks no one's looking. The way his jaw tightens when a teammate takes a hard hit. How his left hand flexes against his thigh when hecan't be on the ice helping. He's not cold at all. He's burning with the need to be out there, to protect his team, to do what he does best. The ice is just a defense.
I make a mental note to corner the team trainer later. Someone needs to know. Someone needs to make sure he's not making it worse by pretending he's fine.
Just as they're about to drop the puck, the arena signage system crashes. Sponsors are scrambled, logos in the wrong sections, names misspelled on the jumbotron. My phone lights up with angry messages from Juliet and the sponsorship coordinator. Corporate sponsors are threatening to pull money if they don't get the visibility they paid for.
I bolt across the concourse, heart pounding. This happened once, when I was first married to Enzo. Thankfully, I watched how they fixed the system carefully. So now, I can jump into action. First, I reroute display tables. Then I hustle the PA announcer to swap out copy. Finally, I physically climb onto a table to adjust a banner that's hanging crooked. By the time I'm done, gasping for breath, I've missed puck drop by fifteen minutes.
Everything's fixed. Everyone got what they needed. That's all that matters.
Juliet finds me in the tunnel and catches my arm. Her voice is low and warm. "Invoice for overtime. You earned it. That was a disaster."
My cheeks flush hot. "I'm just doing my job."
"You're doing more than your job." She squeezes once and walks away.
I stand there for a second, breathing hard, feeling something warm unfurl in my chest. Pride, maybe. Or just relief I didn't completely screw everything up.
Jessa appears at my elbow, smirking. "Your face always does that when someone compliments you."
I bat her away, cheeks flaming hotter. "Shut up. How's the apartment? I hope it's not too lonely."
"The apartment wants you back. So do I." She follows me back to the staff area, still grinning. "So when are you going to tell me about your mystery man on the dating app?"
