But maybe not doomed either.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Remy
A few months have passed by the next time I walk into the Venom arena. This time, I’m on the family suite level, and I realize two things immediately.
One: Hockey WAGs travel in packs.
And two: Apparently, I’ve been absorbed into one against my will.
“Finally,” Sofia says dramatically the moment she spots me. “Do you know how exhausting it’s been listening to these people gossip about your pregnancy without you here to defend yourself?”
“I was not gossiping,” Vivian says primly from her seat near the glass. “I was observing.”
“You literally said there was morning sickness, Sofia,” Knova deadpans.
“There was.” She flips her hair over one shoulder.
“There was definitely nausea on the van ride over,” Dot agrees while stealing popcorn from a giant basket between the seats.
Minerva lifts her wine glass toward me. “Welcome to the chaos.”
Heat immediately crawls up my neck.
I’m suddenly very aware of the fact that I’m no longer here as Owen’s PR rep. No clipboard. No carefully measured professional distance. No excuse to pretend I’m only paying attention to him because it’s my job.
Tonight, I’m here for Owen Rourke, Venom starting goalie.
Which honestly feels more vulnerable than public speaking.
“You guys realize he probably thinks you’re talking about him, right?” I ask.
“Excellent,” Sofia says. “Then maybe he’ll finally stop glaring at reporters like he’s deciding where to bury the bodies.”
I laugh before I can stop myself.
That earns me several deeply knowing looks.
“Oh, she’s gone,” Knova announces sadly to the group. “Absolutely gone.”
“I’m sitting right here.”
Dot pats my arm sympathetically. “It’s okay. We’ve all had the ‘oh, no, I accidentally fell in love with a hockey player’ experience.”
Knova snorts into her drink. “Mine came with property damage.”
“That’s because Viktor thinks emotional regulation is a government conspiracy,” Sofia says.
Below us, the teams begin filtering onto the ice for warm-ups. The arena lights gleam against fresh-cut skate lines while pucks crack sharply off sticks in rapid succession.
And when Owen steps onto the ice, my stomach drops. What hits me first isn’t how intimidating he looks. It’s how calm he looks. Focused and steady in a way I haven’t seen since before everything detonated.
He glides backward into the crease during warmups, tapping each post with practiced precision before settling into position. The movement is so automatic that it almost looks ritualistic.
“He’s been weirdly zen since the suspension,” Dot says beside me. “Which honestly freaked Cam out more than if Owen had started punching drywall.”
“That’s because goalies are all serial killers emotionally,” Knova says. “They just channel it into sports.”
