Pride swells inside my chest so suddenly it almost hurts.
“Oh, no,” Minerva says quietly beside me.
I blink. “What?”
She points at my face. “You’ve got the look.”
“What look?”
“The ‘I’m in love with a hockey player, and now his success feels spiritually personal’ look.”
“I do not have a look.”
All five women stare at me silently.
“Okay,” I admit. “Maybe a small look.”
Sofia snorts.
Down below us, the players begin filtering off the ice toward the tunnel. Fans crowd against the glass, trying to get fist bumps and tossed pucks from the players as they pass.
Owen disappears briefly into the chaos. Then he reappears near the tunnel entrance and immediately lifts his head toward the suites.
Even from this far away, I know the exact moment he finds me in the crowd. His entire expression softens with visible relief, like he’s been looking for me specifically.
The emotional impact of that nearly knocks the air out of me. Like some part of him genuinely believes I’ll be here waiting when he looks up. My chest aches around the realization. Without thinking, I fly down the steps, moving closer to the glass.
Owen’s mouth curves slowly at one corner as warmth floods straight through me.
“Yep,” Vivian shouts from behind me. “That man is absolutely gone for you.”
I’m pretty sure I’m just as gone for him.
He pulls off one giant goalie glove and waves at me. I wave back as the family section starts emptying toward the privatehallway that leads to the down elevators, everyone gathering purses and jackets while talking over one another about the game.
As I head up the stairs and follow them out of the suite, I glance toward the ice one last time.
I’m not waiting for Owen to fail anymore.
I’m finally letting myself believe in him.
* * *
By the time we return to Owen’s condo in Serenity Shores after the game, the adrenaline has finally started to wear off.
Not completely.
The energy of the arena buzzes faintly beneath my skin. The crowd roaring after his saves. The sight of his teammates swarming him after the win. The look on Owen’s face every time he glanced toward the family section and found me there waiting for him.
But underneath all of that now is something softer. Warmer. Safer.
Shutout greets us at the door like he’s been abandoned for seven years instead of only hours. Owen bends automatically to scratch behind his ears while the dog nearly folds himself in half, wagging.
“Traitor,” Owen says when Shutout immediately abandons him to lean against my legs instead.
I laugh softly and run my fingers through the dog’s fur. “He has good taste.”
Owen’s eyes lift to mine then, and the breath stalls in my lungs. God. He looks so happy. No emotionally barricaded, or tense and waiting for impact.
