“It’s nothing.”
I step closer and wrap my arms around his waist, pressing my cheek against his chest. “It’s not nothing.”
He pulls me in tight, one hand sliding up and down my back in slow, grounding strokes. He exhales, deep and shaky, like he’s been holding his breath since he saw me. “When I saw his hands on you…”
I tilt my head back just enough to see his face. “I thought you were going to rip his arm off.”
His mouth twitches. “I wanted to. I figured that might upset you.”
“It would have,” I say solemnly. “I just had Millie washed.”
He snorts, the tension finally cracking, then glances at my car. “Seriously? And she still looks like that?”
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” I scold.
He cups my chin, thumb warm against my skin, and leans down until our lips barely brush. “Yes,” he murmurs, “it is.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
ARTHUR
“Nice win last night, Mr. Stetson.”
“Thanks, Tony.” I slow long enough to clasp the friendly security guard’s hand. He’s been with the team far longer than most of us, through coaching changes, rebuilds, and heartbreak seasons.
“One more!” he calls after me, voice bright as I head toward the arena’s VIP entrance.
One more.
One more game. The one that decides who goes to the Stanley Cup Finals.
One more.
There’s no real reason for me to be here this morning. We fly to Boston later this afternoon. My bag is packed. My notes are ready. Every scenario has been walked through a dozen times. Still, pacing Otter headquarters feels safer than pacing my condo, where the walls echo and the silence strangles me.
The building is unusually quiet. Even for a Friday. A lot of people were probably up late watching the game last night.
I poke my head into the equipment room, half-expecting to find Rick pulling what little hair he has left out.
Instead, I find Sam.
“Sam?”
“Hey,” he says, flashing an easy smile when he sees me.
I raise an eyebrow. “Are you skipping school?”
“No,” he deadpans. “I’m on a field trip.” He gestures broadly to the empty room. “Meet my class.”
I snort. “Smart-ass. What are you actually doing?”
“Just helping Rick double-check everything before you guys leave for Boston.” He taps a checklist clipped to the counter like proof.
“That’s great.”
He studies me for a second. “What about you? What are you doing here?”
The instinct to deflect rises immediately out of habit.
