Kieren leaned in, voice low. “Still worried about embarrassing me?”
I didn’t look at him.
But I reached down, slipped my hand into his anyway, and said, “Terrified.”
His fingers curled around mine. “Good.”
The dinner was louder than I expected.
Not in a bad way—just… alive. It pulsed with inside jokes, old stories, clinking glasses, and that effortless camaraderie you only get from people who’d bled together on the same ice.
I stayed quiet for the first twenty minutes, content to sip my wine and observe from the cozy seat beside Kieren. We sat near the middle of the long table, tucked between the chaos that was Adam and Beckett on one side, and the quiet brooding wall of Asher and Griffin on the other.
At first, I thought Kieren would be the kind of guy to fade into the background. Broody, silent, arm-candy for intimidation’s sake.
I was wrong.
He didn’t speak often—but when he did, people shut up and listened.
When Adam and Beckett started bickering over who had more assists last year, their voices rising and napkins flying, Kieren didn’t even raise his voice. Just one look. One arched brow. They stopped like he’d flipped a switch.
Beckett actually apologized.
Asher, who barely said a word all night, nodded when Kieren made a point about power plays. Griffin—all fire and dominance—leaned back with a thoughtful hum after Kieren challenged something he said. Not confrontational, just… calm. Grounded.
It hit me then.
He wasn’t the team’s grump or ghost.
He was their anchor.
The one who didn’t need the spotlight because he was the gravity holding the rest of them together.
I must’ve been staring, because Kieren leaned in, low and warm near my ear.
“Counting how many people listen when I talk?” he murmured, a thread of amusement in his voice.
I smirked. “Trying to figure out why they do.”
He chuckled—barely a sound. “That makes two of us.”
I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t help the twist in my chest. It was so easy to forget that under the smirks and grunts and unbearable hotness; he was just… a guy. One who probably never asked for this level of respect, but had earned it anyway.
I looked at him out of the corner of my eye.
“You’re not what I expected,” I admitted.
“Let me guess,” he said, sipping his water. “You thought I’d be a caveman with anger issues and a punching streak.”
“Well.” I tilted my head. “The night is still young.”
That earned me a grin, sharp and slow.
“Keep talking like that,” he said, voice rough, “and I’m going to start thinking this fake dating thing is just an excuse to flirt.”
“You think I’m flirting?”
“I think,” he said, inching closer, “you like what you see.”
