“I don’t scare people.” A brunette with sharp eyes retorts. “I’m just brutally honest.”
“You made his last girlfriend cry,” Goldie points out.
“She was terrible and they broke up two weeks later. I did him a favor.”
My stomach twists. There was a last girlfriend. Who cried. Who Elliot didn’t like.
“This is Brody’s wife,” Marnie says, like she didn’t just let that bomb drop. “The nicest man is married to the meanest woman, you’ll get used to it.”
“I’m not mean.” But Elliot’s smiling now, which somehow makes it worse. “I’m selective about who I like. But Rodriguez has been mooning over you for months, so you must be doing something right.”
Another woman pats the empty seat next to her. “Ignore them. I’m Chloe. Anderson’s wife. My daughter Mackie is around here somewhere, probably flirting with the equipment staff.”
“I heard that!” A girl who can’t be more than eighteen or nineteen materializes from behind a row of seats. “I wasn’t flirting. I was asking about stick tape.”
“Sure you were.” Chloe’s smile is pure indulgence. “This is Juliette. Rodriguez’s girlfriend.”
Her entire face lights up like I’ve just made her year. “Oh my god, yes! I remember you from that day in the coffee shop! So he finally convinced you to go out with him? After months of talking about you?”
The nervous knot in my chest loosens slightly. “He talks about me?”
“All the time.” She plops into the seat next to me. “How many other players have you met? Zach? He’s the backup goalie and Rodriguez’s best friend.”
“We met briefly. In the parking lot.”
“He’s really good. Like scary good.” She leans closer to me and lowers her voice. “He’s also really cute but don’t tell anyone I said that.”
The lights drop. My heart kicks against my ribs as the announcer’s voice booms through the arena. The team skates out in a blur of black and teal and I spot him immediately.
“There’s your man,” Goldie says. “Looking good.”
“Goldie,” Elliot warns.
“What? I’m pregnant, I’m not dead.”
The puck drops and suddenly everything is fast. Bodiesslamming into boards, the crack of sticks, the puck moving so quickly I can barely track it. It’s violent and beautiful and I can’t look away.
Ten minutes in, Romeo gets the puck. He’s flying down the wing, shoulders low, stick handling like the puck is glued to his blade. He dekes around a defender who lunges and misses, winds up, shoots?—
Goal.
The arena explodes. The horn blares so loud it vibrates in my chest. And Romeo is skating toward our section, arm raised, pointing directly at me.
At me.
My stomach does this wild flip that’s part embarrassment, part something else I’m absolutely not ready to put a name to.
“Oh my god,” I breathe.
“He just pointed at you!” Mackie squeals, grabbing my arm. “In front of everyone! That’s so romantic!”
“That’s so embarrassing.” But my face is burning and I can’t stop smiling and everyone in this section is looking at me and I don’t even care.
“Get used to it,” Elliot says, something like approval in her voice. “They’re all show-offs.”
By the second period, I’m not just tolerating this—I’m actually enjoying it. The women are funny and sharp and they’re not treating me like an outsider or testing me or whatever I thought they’d be doing. Goldie keeps making increasingly inappropriate comments. Elliot provides running commentary on every bad call with the kind of knowledge that makes it clear she actually understands hockey.
And Mackie will not stop talking about Almardon.
