“Yeah.” I tilt my head, eyes never leaving hers. “Now that I know the cure.”
Her cheeks flush, soft pink blooming fast. Her lips part like she wants to say something clever, then it derails.
“Maybe I like my claws out,” she challenges with a smile.
Yeah, the tiger didn’t turn into a kitten overnight. But she’s learned exactly who she likes to bare her throat to.
And I fucking love that she chose me.
I lean back against the counter, crossing my arms. “Finish your coffee,” I tell her. “Then go pack.”
“Wow. You sleep with me once and you’re already kicking me out?”
I crack a grin. “Minnesota,” I say. “Away game, remember?”
She groans dramatically, tipping her head back. “I can’t. I’ve got designs to finish. A life.”
“You promised me something,” I remind her calmly.
“I promised to show up to games.” She straightens. “Not follow you around the Midwest like a groupie.”
I step closer. “I’m not asking.”
Her eyes narrow. “You can call me and text—”
“I’m not negotiating.” I stop in front of her. “You’re coming with me.”
“You can’t just decide that,” she scoffs.
“No flights back to Miami after the game. Next morning only.” I say evenly.
She stares a long second, then laughs, shaking her head. “So what, you can’t stay away from me for one day?”
I almost say yes. “Sometimes,” I admit, “a few hours is too much.”
Her smile lingers, teasing and victorious.
“Besides, I don’t want to come back and find you grinding on someone at a club.”
Her smile falters; her eyes drop, remorseful. “You won’t,” she says, looking up. “I promise.”
“Either way,” I say, stepping back, “you’re coming with me.”
This isn’t about PR anymore. It’s about not wanting to step onto the ice without knowing she’s close. I don’t intend to pretend otherwise.
The arena noise tears through the tunnel the moment the team steps onto the ice. It’s not cheers—it's boos threaded with screams, heckling bouncing off concrete and steel like shrapnel. Minnesota knows who we are and they don’t like us.
Good. They can suck my dick.
I’m in full gear, helmet tucked under my arm, gloves loose in my hand. The boys file past, focused and locked in. I’m supposed to keep moving, but Jessica’s familiar face slows me down.
She’s escorted into the tunnel by team staff—just far enough for the sidelines to see, just close enough I can smell her perfume cutting through sweat, ice, rubber.
My feet stop. My body moves before my brain votes.
The noise swells when people realize who she is. Phones lift, cameras snap. Someone boos her just because she’s standing next to me.
Hostile territory.
