I need to find a way to keep that from happening, but the more I think about it, the more I wish Ihadaccepted Jayce’s proposal. A fake engagement with him versus a lifetime of misery with Leon. As career-driven as I am, and as much as I 100 percent do not want to focus on marriage whatsoever right now, it’s pretty clear that my parents are not going to give up on this obsession.
Should I have said yes when I had the chance?
CHAPTER ELEVEN: GAME DAY
JAYCE
I can hearthe hum of the crowd as I move with the team out of the locker room to the tunnel that will take us to the ice. My heart is hammering and my blood is rushing through my veins in anticipation of the game. This isn’t unusual for me. I always feel a rush right before we face off with whatever team we’re playing against. It’s like a dose of adrenaline has been shot straight into my veins. I’m used to it and it’s a reminder of just how much I love this sport and why I’ve worked so hard to get to where I am.
Tonight, though, there’s something else. It’s not only the thrill of hockey making me buzz.
Sutton’s here, and that means, I have a second chance at convincing her to join in on my plan. I managed to get the guys to confirm that she would be here.
“Did Sutton get to town all right?”I’d asked Jensen when we first arrived at the stadium earlier.
“Huh?”He’d looked a bit confused.“Uh, yeah, she did. She’s with Grace and the girls right now at Stacey and Owen’s.”
“And she’s coming to the game, right?”
He’d arched a brow.“Yeah, dude. I didn’t realize you two were so friendly.”
I’d shrugged.“We run in some of the same circles. You could say we’ve… gotten to know each other.”
I’d left it at that, not going into any detail, especially about the fact that we hooked up less than a week ago.
Now, as the team makes our way onto the ice, the crowd is roaring and the arena is echoing with cheers, but I zero in on the press benches. Grace usually lets the girls sit there with her when they come to games.
I scan their faces until I lock with a pair of honey brown eyes. Sutton stares back at me, her lips parted slightly and her cheeks flushed. Fuck, she’s beautiful. Her long hair is pulled back into a high ponytail, showing off the teal underneath, and… she’s wearing my jersey. The number 32 is so big and bright on her chest. Just like when we were in Estes Park for the group’s Friendmas gathering in January. I’d been a day late, but when I’d arrived at the vacation house we’d gotten for the weekend, the guys wanted to scrimmage on a nearby frozen pond. All the other girls had jerseys with their guy’s number, but Sutton didn’t have one. I’d given her mine, not really thinking about it, so she wouldn’t be the odd man out.
Fuck… it still looks good on her. Is she wearing it to get my attention? Make a statement of some kind? Whatever the reason, it actually fits into my plans perfectly.
I force my eyes away from her and focus on the game. It’s easier now that I know she’s really here.
I skate to my position on the left wing, legs loose, pulse steady, stick tapping lightly against the surface. Across from me, Jensen readies himself at center ice, eyes locked on the puck about to drop between him and the opposing team’s center.
Carson is crouched in goal behind us, tapping his stick as well against the post twice before stilling. Mike, Owen’s sub while he’s on leave, and Zander line up behind the circle, heads tilted forward, poised and ready. To my right, Wilder rolls hisshoulders, stick angled, restless energy practically vibrating off him.
The whistle blows.
The puck drops.
Jensen wins the faceoff clean, snapping it back to Mike. Mike wastes no time, sliding it across to Zander, who takes a quick look up the ice and fires it forward along the boards. Wilder catches it in stride, slicing through the neutral zone.
“Go, go!” Jensen shouts, skating hard down the middle.
I push off the line, blades cutting into the ice, matching his speed. Wilder cuts right, pulling a defenseman with him, then flicks the puck across the crease toward me. I reach, angle my stick, but it glances off the toe and bounces wide.
“Next one!” Jensen calls as the opposing defense clears it out.
We reset. The other team pushes back, rushing down the ice, but Zander steps up and meets their forward hard against the boards. The hit rattles through the glass, and the crowd erupts. The puck shoots loose. Jensen scoops it up and sends it across the ice.
“Heads up, Jayce!” he yells.
I catch the pass, feel it snap against my tape, and start the breakout. Wilder mirrors me along the opposite wing, Jensen cutting up the middle for support. I deke one defender, slide the puck under his stick, and hear the collective inhale of the crowd as I accelerate toward the net.
I fake the shot, pull right, and dish it across to Jensen. He takes it cleanly, winds up, and lets it rip.
The goalie just barely gets a piece of it, deflecting it wide.
