“I’ll wear it,” I breathed against his mouth. “I’ll wear your name.”
CHAPTER 33
HARLOW
The arena was electric.
I’d been to hockey games before, but this felt different. Everything felt different when I was wearing Owen’s name on my back.
The jersey hung loose on me, the hem grazing mid-thigh over my leggings.
I felt claimed, and I loved it more than I probably should have.
The student section was packed with bodies pressed together in a sea of navy and white. Everyone was screaming and stomping, making the metal bleachers vibrate beneath my feet. Signs waved overhead, GO EAGLES and DESTROY THEM.
I found a spot near the glass, not far from the penalty box. Close enough that Owen spotted me the moment he stepped onto the ice.
His eyes found mine as if I were the only person in a crowd of thousands. He did a double-take when he saw the jersey, his whole body going still for a heartbeat before a grin split across his face.
He winked at me before skating off to join his teammates, and I couldn’t stop smiling.
The buzzer sounded, signaling the end of warm-ups, and the teams retreated to their respective benches. The announcer’s voice boomed through the speakers, rattling off player names and stats.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to tonight’s matchup between your Clarkson University Eagles and Denver University’s Wolves.”
The crowd exploded, and I screamed along with them. My throat was already going raw, and the game hadn’t even started yet.
The players took their positions at center ice. Owen was there, bent forward over his stick. Even from here, I could see the tension in his shoulders, the focus sharpening his features into something fierce and predatory.
The puck dropped, and everything happened fast.
Owen won the face-off, stick flashing as he swept the puck back to Bennett, who was already moving. The play showed the hours of practice, years of teamwork, and an almost telepathic understanding of where everyone needed to be.
The Wolves were good, though. Their defense collapsed around Owen the moment he touched the puck, two players converging on him aggressively, making me wince. He absorbed the hit, kept his feet, and managed to pass the puck to Stanley before getting slammed into the boards hard enough that I felt it in my teeth.
“Come on, ref,” someone behind me screamed. “That’s interference.”
No whistle. The play continued.
The first period was brutal. The Wolves played dirty, late hits, subtle stick work that the refs kept missing. Owen took hit after hit, each time he picked himself up with that stubborn set to his jaw, and he channeled all of it into his skating, his shots, his relentless pursuit of the puck.
He was magnificent.
Every time he had the puck, the crowd held its breath. He moved like water, weaving through defenders with a grace that seemed impossible for someone his size. His shots were bullets, and the Wolves’ goalie was working overtime to keep them out of the net.
Midway through the first period, Owen took a pass from Ryder at the blue line. He faked left, deked right, and left two defenders sprawling in his wake. The goalie came out to challenge him, cutting down the angle, but Owen was already moving, already adjusting. He went top shelf, the puck sailing over the goalie’s glove and hitting the back of the net.
The arena erupted, and I flew out of my seat, screaming so loud my voice cracked. I jumped up and down with everyone around me, the metal bleachers shaking under our collective celebration. On the ice, Owen’s teammates mobbed him, helmets bumping, gloves slapping his back.
He looked up at me through the glass.
Pointed his stick directly at me, and I thought my heart was going to explode.
The game continued. The Wolves answered with a goal, a scrappy play in front of the net that the Eagles’ goalie never saw coming. Then Bennett scored on a beautiful wrist shot from the slot, putting the Eagles up 2-1.
By the time the second period started, I’d completely lost my voice.
I also caught the attention of someone I really wished I hadn’t.
