I imagine it’sI love you.
Or maybeI’m so fucking happy you’re here.
Or maybe justGod, I miss you.
AfterO Canada, Cash and I move on toThe Star-Spangled Banner. Our harmonies blend perfectly, and when the last note fades, the crowd erupts. And Miles is still staring at me as if I’ll disappear if he blinks.
Before we step off the ice, I blow a kiss to the crowd—but it’s directed at him.
He gives me one more small smile and presses his gloved hand against his chest. Then I lose sight of him. I’m swept through the maze backstage and brought up to a box to watch the game.
The puck drops.
And I don’t take my eyes off number 43.
FORTY-THREE
King with three assists tonight.A completely different player than we saw in Game 1. The intensity. The focus. He played like a man possessed. You have to wonder whether it has anything to do with his girlfriend, Summer Starling?—
Okay, I have no idea what the sportscasters are saying, but it’s not that.
They don’t even know we’re dating. No one does. I wish they did.
Everything else is plausible. All true. We won. 4-2. I had three assists, which I’ll care more about later.
Right now, all I can think about is finding her.
She’s here.
She flew to another country—I know it’s Canada, but it still counts.
She wore my jersey and looked at me like I was the only person in the entire arena.
I spent the last three hours pretending I wasn’t looking for her in the crowd. Failed at that. Still, I couldn’t spot her.
I strip off my gear in a daze, the chaos of the locker room washing over me. Guys celebrating, music blasting, Volk doing his post-win interview in the corner.
I’m moving on autopilot. Skates off. Pads. Base layers peeled away.
I take the quickest shower of my life. When I’m hopping on one foot trying to dress just as fast, Fox nudges my side. “Summer still here?”
“I hope so.”
“I’ll cover for you.” He shoves my shoulder, grinning. “Go find your girl.”
I don’t need to be told twice.
I’m out of the locker room before most of the guys are even dressed, phone in hand, texting her to ask where she is. But I don’t wait for a response; I head toward the family lounge first. It’s on the second level, tucked behind the main concourse.
When I don’t find her there, I go toward marketing and PR. I know this building like the back of my hand, but the hallways are packed with the usual post-game frenzy, so it takes longer than I’d like to get over there.
I’m guessing if she’s here, it’s a double-duty trip, and she’s probably gotten roped into press.
I stick my head into a couple of conference rooms. She’s not in any of them.
If she’s not here, maybe she’s still down near the tunnel. Even though I checked right after the game. Maybe we’re just missing each other.
I groan, pace clipped, as I head back toward the elevators. A door flings open, and a little girl cuts me off, running and giggling, closely followed by a woman in pointy black heels.
