How has this man somehow filled every crack and crevice in my heart in just a few days?
My pulse roars in my ears.
Then it’s his turn to shoot, and he glances back over his shoulder quickly. Time slows. I stare until he snaps the puck into the net without even looking at it, and then I blush and wave him off, mouthing,go play hockey.
He grins and finds a place to do his stretches, which Sloane is very respectful about.
The little kids next to me get pushed by a growing crowd behind us.
“Here, you can stand in front of us,” I say, making room for them.
Logan glances up. There’s no way he heard me through the plexiglass.
I wave, and then jerk my thumb up to the rafters.
It’s time for us to go find our seats.
Nodding, he jumps up and heads to the tunnel, getting off the ice so I won’t linger where I feel exposed.
“Your husband plays professional hockey and we’re in the nosebleeds. The irony,” Sloane says as we head up the escalator.
“Shhh.”
She shows me the screen of her phone. “Took this cute picture of you.”
It’s a photo of me from behind, at the glass, with Logan in front of me, both of our backs to the camera. Wearing matching jerseys.
My heart does a happy twirl. “You can’t post that anywhere.”
“I wouldn’t. I’m just documenting tonight for later.”
“For later? For what?”
“You’re not going to be a secret forever,” Liz says guiding me off the escalator like she knows where she’s going.
Except she does and I don’t, because she’s been here before and I’m…
I’m…
“Beer?” Sloane points to the nearest counter to our seats.
I shake my head.
They get me to our row, which is still empty.
Sloane angles her phone for a selfie, the ice rink visible behind us. “Smile like you’re not having an existential crisis about your life choices.”
I flip her off instead.
“I actually do want beer,” Liz says. “And popcorn?”
Sloane takes a look at my face. “Get a round. If she doesn’t want that beer when you get back, I’ll drink it.”
“I’ll drink it,” I mutter. My palms are sweaty and I’m staring at the ice, even though there’s nothing happening down there yet. My voice sounds distant to my own ears.
“Earth to Frankie. Francesca.” Sloane pushes me into my seat, then bends me forward, rubbing my back. “You went pale there for a second.”
“I married a hockey player,” I mumble into my knees. “I’mmarried. To ahockey player.”
