When the game starts, I go to the VIP suite where the other WAGs are already gathered.
“April!” Jess pulls me into a hug. “You look so cute! Very ‘supportive hockey girlfriend.’”
“That’s what I was going for,” I say with a little curtsy and quickly fill them in on today’s spectacle of epically fake proportions.
Ella appears at my elbow. “Let’s talk about the kiss. Are we talking quick peck or full rom-com moment?”
“I don’t know! Whitaker just said ‘candid.’”
“Candid could mean anything,” Margo muses. “A forehead kiss. A cheek kiss. A?—”
“Let’s maybe not plan the kiss like it’s a movie,” I interrupt, my face flaming.
The girls exchange knowing looks but mercifully drop it.
The game is intense. The Knights are playing the Wisconsin Warriors, and both teams are fighting for playoff positioning. Clark is in the net, and watching him is always mesmerizing—the way he reads the play, his lightning-fast reflexes, and how he makes impossible saves look routine.
“He’s playing really well tonight,” Jess observes.
“He always plays well,” I say automatically, a bit dreamily.
“Yeah, but tonight he’s playing like he’s showing off.” Cara grins at me. “Wonder why that is.”
They have the nerve to giggle.
I refuse to take the bait.
Midway through the first period, Mikey scores. The goal horn blares, the crowd erupts, and then—hundreds? Thousands?—of stuffed animals rain down onto the ice.
It’s unreal as teddy bears, dogs, cats, even a few dinosaurs and unicorns, catapult over the boards and glass and onto the rink. The entire outer ring of ice is completely covered, a plush avalanche of donated toys. The players skate through it all like an obstacle course, laughing. Clark—in full pads—does a backward dive into the pile like he’s making a snow angel.
The crowd is going wild, and I’m laughing so hard my sides hurt.
“Come on!” Heidi grabs my arm. “We’re going down!”
The WAGs and I rush down to ice level, where the cleanup crew gathers thousands of stuffed animals into massive bins. The energy is infectious—pure generosity and community and love.
Clark skates over, holding a stuffed golden retriever. It’s squishy soft with a red bow around its neck.
“For you,” he says, passing it through the open door in the boards.
I take it, confused. “Clark, these are for?—”
“It’s Gordie. Or close enough.” His smile is soft. “Thought you’d want to keep him.”
His lost dog was the whole reason we met.
“Thank you,” I manage.
He’s still looking at me with an expression that momentarily makes me forget this is fake when the photographer appears.
“Perfect! Stay just like that. Clark, can you lean in a bit? April, look at him like—yes, exactly like that. Beautiful.”
Cameras flash, and I’m acutely aware ofhow close we are. How Clark’s hand has found mine. How the crowd is watching. But it’s all going so fast, I don’t have time to process whether Clark is “on” because we’re in public or if the way his gaze lingers on me means something more.
“Interview in two minutes,” Sandra announces. “Meet us at center ice!”
The next few minutes are a blur. The Zamboni clears the ice—now toy-free—and suddenly Clark and I are standing at center ice under the bright lights with a sportscaster named Billy B holding a microphone.
