“Yeah . . . something like that.”
The crowd roared around us, pucks clanged against glass, an announcer’s voice buzzed over the speakers, but inside our bubble, it was just him and me and the things we weren’t saying.
I watched him from the corner of my eye. His jaw was tight and his eyes... his eyes looked so goddamn tired.
“Hey,” I said softly, letting the edge fall away. “You okay being here?”
“Yeah. It’s okay. “I was here the night I saw you two fucking in the tunnels. And the night I followed you home after.”
I blinked. “Jesus, Jer.”
It came out half laugh, half gasp as my eyes dropped to his hands, the way they stiffened against his thighs. Beneath the tough exterior, the ache was still there. Without thinking, I reached over, curling my fingers around his. His hand slipped easily into mine.
He looked down at our hands and held them up. “This what friends do now?”
“We’ve never been good at playing it conventional,” I said, tracing my thumb along the tattoo on his middle finger. “So yeah. This is whatunconventionalfriends do.”
As if the timing was scripted by some dramatic deity, Dirks skated right up to the glass in front of us, face flushed, sweat-damp hair clinging to his temple. His eyes flicked down to our joined hands, then back up to me. He smiled big and bright.
I dropped Jer’s hand and stood up to lean over to kiss the glass like some puck bunny in a fever dream. Dirks didn’t miss a beat. He kissed it back with enough showmanship to earn a full-blown eye roll from the family behind us.
Jer made a gagging sound behind me. “God fuckingdamn. That was so horrifically and wholesomely disgusting—I think I lost a year off my life.”
I turned and swatted at his arm. “Shut up. You love it.”
“Gross,” he muttered.
He shook his head slowly, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
The rest of the game was chaos in the best way possible.
“Dirks, take the damn shot,” I shouted, half standing, waving my half-eaten hot dog.
Jer elbowed me. “You’re gonna get kicked out.”
“I’m enhancing the experience,” I shot back. “He plays better when I scream.”
“He plays better when I’mnotscreaming,” Jer muttered, but his voice cracked on a laugh. A second later, he was cupping his hands and yelling, “Skate like you’re a pro, you fucking amateur.”
We heckled, screamed, cursed like sailors. Jer even stood during the power play and yelled instructions. Somewhere between the second and third period, Jer leaned in and kissed my cheek.
I blinked. “Did you just kiss me in public?”
He shrugged. “Don’t get used to it.”
“Oh, I’m writing it down. This is going in the scrapbook.”
Dirks kept skating past our section—definitely more than he needed to. The man was absolutely showing off, smirking every time we slammed our hands on the glass. Jer yelled something about needing better defense, and Dirks flipped him off mid-shift.
Peak romance.
By the time the game ended, my throat was raw and my face hurt from grinning, but I reached for Jer’s hand, threading my fingers through his without looking, and pulled him toward the tunnel where the players’ families waited.
“Ilovedtonight,” I said, bouncing on my toes. “Top ten nights of my life.”
“I did too, Lune. It felt... good. All of it.”
We paused at the end of the hallway, just before the players started filing out, and Jer turned toward me. He brought his hand up slowly, brushing my cheek, thumb grazing just below my eye. I reached up, wrapping my fingers around his, stopping the motion before it went farther.
