“Accurate,” Vivian agrees. “My dad is a goalie. Can confirm.”
A shot rockets toward the net during warmups, and Owen snags it cleanly out of the air with his glove.
The women around me barely react. I, meanwhile, nearly ascend into the ceiling. God, watching him now feels different. Before, I was always analyzing. Monitoring. Looking for problems before they escalated.
Now I just… watch him.
And somehow that feels infinitely more dangerous.
Down on the ice, Viktor skates past the crease and smacks Owen’s pads with his stick. Owen’s lips move, and Viktor laughs in response.
The affection between the players hits me unexpectedly hard because nobody here looks afraid of Owen. Not one of them. They trust him. Love him, even.
And suddenly, I realize how badly I needed to see that with my own eyes.
As if he feels me looking at him, Owen lifts his head toward the suite level, and our eyes meet instantly. Every bit of his focus shifts. It’s subtle enough that most people probably wouldn’t notice it. His shoulders loosen slightly. The severe line of his mouth softens.
By the middle of the first period, butterflies settle in my stomach. I’m nervous. Not “handler” nervous. Not “please don’t let a player say something deeply stupid to the media” nervous.
Personally nervous.
Every time the puck crosses center ice, my stomach tightens.
Beside me, Sofia calmly steals another handful of popcorn. “You’re doing the thing.”
I glance at her. “What thing?”
“The goalie-girlfriend stress thing.”
“I’m not his girlfriend.”
All five women look at me. Dot actually snorts.
“Remy,” Minerva says gently, “you’re sitting in family seating wearing his hoodie.”
I look down automatically.
Right.
Okay, in my defense, the hoodie situation happened organically.
Mostly.
Heat crawls up my neck while Vivian leans closer. “Just wait until the playoffs. I once stress-ate an entire charcuterie board during overtime.”
“That was one period,” Knova says.
“It was a stressful period.”
Down on the ice, Owen settles deeper into his crease while Detroit cycles the puck high along the boards. The movement is fast and aggressive now, their forwards trying to screen traffic in front of the net.
My pulse spikes immediately, but Owen remains completely calm. That’s the thing mesmerizing me tonight. Not the saves themselves. The steadiness.
A Detroit forward crashes hard toward the crease, trying to jam home a rebound, and before I can fully panic, Viktor absolutely levels him into the boards.
The crowd erupts.
“So romantic,” Knova says dryly. “Maybe I’ll ask him to repeat that move on me later. Straight into the mattress.”
