“Yeah, of course. Let’s grab some stuff before we find our seats.” We wait in the growing line, pay way too much for two soft pretzels with cheese and two bottles of soda, then find the entrance to our section.
“Holy shit. These seats are awesome.”
“Language,” I say reflexively as we squeeze past already-seated fans and make our way to the seats Logan got for us.
Reed rolls his eyes, then flops down in his chair, his knees knocking against mine. I can’t even be mad about his manspreading. He’s genuinely almost too tall for normal-people seats like this. I wouldn’t be surprised if he ends up being well over six feet tall by the time he’s done growing. He’s already almost at my five-foot-nine, and he’s thirteen.
When the guys come out for warm-ups, Reed grins like the kid he still very much is when Logan and the rest of the guys skate by and pound the glass, waving at us. It earns us more than a few curious looks, but I choose to ignore them in favor of watching my little brother glow with happiness. And when Logan points at him and tosses a puck over the glass, making sure the fans in the first few rows pass it back, Reed is flying high.
And I’m falling.
Hard.
The thought makes my heart race and my hands grow clammy. Suddenly, the arena is too loud, the people too close, and the air too thin.
I’m falling.
And freaking the fuck out.
“I need another drink,” I say to my little brother. He’s so wrapped up in the action, he doesn’t notice the breathy, thin quality of my voice. “Need anything else?”
“I’m good. Thanks.”
Apologizing as I squeeze past the people seated around us, I climb the steps to the exit and practically run out of the main part of the arena toward the concession stands. I’m so preoccupied with my internal freak-out that I’m not paying attention to where I’m going, and I let out a breathlessoomphwhen I run straight into what feels like a wall.
“Woah there. You all right?”
A handsome older man steadies me with his hands on my arms as I stumble backward. His gaze is assessing, gray eyes running down the length of me. I’m sure he means to appear concerned, but there’s something hungry about his perusal that straightens my spine.
Pulling away, I paste on a smile and nod. “I’m okay. Sorry about that.”
“No worries, darlin’. It’s not much of a hardship to run into a beautiful woman like you.”
There’s something strangely familiar about the man, though I’ve never met him before. He’s older—most likely in his mid-to-late fifties if I had to guess—wearing a fitted, expensive-looking suit with a perfectly knotted tie, and has slicked-back, mostly salt-and-pepper gray hair. He strikes me as the kind of man who lives in suits. Like he’s more comfortable all buttoned up in the starched formality than he could ever be in jeans and a tee shirt.
I don’t trust people like that, and something tells me not to trust him, either.
My chuckle sounds forced, because it is. I know most men believe women love hearing strangers call us beautiful, but really, we just want to be left alone. At least, I want to be left alone. I don’t need compliments about my looks from a man who could be my father.
“Right, well, sorry again for bumping into you.”
“Owen,” he says smoothly. He holds out his hand, which I stare at, dumbly. After a moment, his lips twitch into a frown, and he drops his hand.
“Sure. Well, enjoy the game.” I sidestep the man—Owen, apparently—but stop when his hand shoots out and wraps around my wrist.
“Can I buy you a drink? Maybe dinner?”
The battle I wage with myself to keep from rolling my eyes cannot be understated. It’s hard-fought, and I almost don’t win.
“Um, no, thank you. I need to get back to my brother.”
“Another time? Why don’t you give me your number?” He holds out a shiny new phone. He’s obviously rich enough that it’s the latest model, whereas I’ve been using mine going on four years. His gray eyes run down the length of my body again. “And your name.”
Clearing my throat, I pull my arm away. “I’m really not interested. And I have a boyfriend.”
Good ole Owen clearly isn’t used to being rejected, because his brow furrows and his frown deepens before he recovers and his face slides into an affable mask. “Boyfriends aren’t husbands, though, are they? And even husbands don’t have to be forever.” He winks at me, and I know my face is saying all the things my mouth won’t.
“That’s… Ew.” Not giving him another chance to stop me, I turn on my heel and hurry toward the concession stand. My fingers flex at my sides, and I pull my phone out of my pocket to give me something to do other than slapping the smug look off that guy’s face. Becauseeven husbands don’t have to be forever? Who the hell says stuff like that?
