"Six-foot-four Russian ex-mafia hockey players with trust issues," I reply without hesitation.
That earns a laugh from her, but I wish she knew just how much I’m not joking about him.
We drive in silence for several minutes before I recognize the skyline shifting, the freeway exit signs changing.
And then I see it.
The arena.
"Molly," I say, dread creeping up my spine.
She turns into the parking garage as if it’s a casual Tuesday errand.
"Molly," I repeat, sharper this time.
"He won’t even see you," she says lightly. "There are twenty thousand people in that building."
"He will see me," I say. "He sees everything."
She parks but I don’t move.
"He hates me," I say quietly. "The last thing he’s going to want is to see me at his game."
"Then at least you’ll know. Instead of sitting in limbo," she says. "Like I said, there are twenty thousand people and security everywhere the team goes. If he doesn’t want to see you, he won’t."
She has a point. Maybe I can stroll in undetected and get one last look at him before I let him go and fly back to Arizona. One last time to be in the same room with him.
The arena is louder than I remember from the last time I was here. The sound wraps around my ribs and vibrates straightthrough me, down to my toes. The ice glows under the lights, the Hawkeyes logo stretched across the center like a declaration of power and belonging.
This is his territory, and I know that I shouldn’t be here.
Our seats aren’t front row, but they’re close enough that I can see the tension in his shoulders when he skates out for warm-ups. Close enough to see that he looks different tonight—sharper somehow, every movement controlled to the point of severity.
I immediately reach over and steal Molly’s baseball cap.
"Hey," she protests.
But I don’t stop until I have it pulled down as far as I can to hide my face.
"This is your fault," I mutter, sinking lower in my seat like that might make me invisible, crossing my arms over my chest as high as possible to block as much of me as possible.
"You act like he’s going to turn you into dust if he sees you."
"You haven’t met him," I reply. "He might."
She laughs.
I don’t.
When his name is announced, the crowd erupts in a wave of sound, cheering for the team… cheering for him. I don’t know why that brings tears to my eyes. Seeing how loved he is here and how proud I am of him and everything he’s overcome in his life. How much he loves it out here and how much I hurt him.
He doesn’t look up. He doesn’t scan the stands. He skates his line, focused and deliberate.
The game starts while I try to watch it like a normal person.
Every time he takes a hit, my heart jumps into my throat and my hands instantly cover my face like I can’t witness him getting hurt. Every time he checks someone into the boards, I can see the force behind it, the aggression sitting just below the surface like something contained but not gone.
He scores in the second period.
