Page 46 of Line Change

“Please, Sutton.” I’m not above begging at this point. Just once, I want to look up into the stands and see my woman, even if it is fake, wearing my jersey and cheering me on. Aside from winning the Stanley Cup, this is the one thing left on my professional hockey career bucket list.

She must read something in my expression or hear it in my voice because she says, “Of course. You’re doing so much for me it’s the least I can do …”

“Thank you.” I stand, knocking my knuckles against the desk, needing to get out of here before I do something ridiculous like kiss her or beg her to date me. “I should get home. I’ll see you tonight.”

“See you.”

With a wave, I head out of her office and toward the parking lot so I can go home and take a nap before the game.

“You ready for this?” Wes asks as we’re lacing up our skates hours later.

I swivel my head to look at him. “Huh?” Does he somehow know I asked Sutton to wear my number? Not that it matters if he does.

“The game. Are you ready to hunt some birds?”

“Always.”

I hate the Mockingbirds. Everyone in this dressing room does. They’re our biggest rivals, and when we play them, the games are always nasty.

He holds his fist out, and I bump mine against it. “Excited for your big day?” I blink a couple of times. “Your wedding?”

“Oh, yeah.” I bob my head a few times. “All I’ve gotta do is pick up my tux tomorrow.”

“Not getting cold feet, are you?” He narrows his eyes at me.

I grab my stick and the tape. “Of course not. I promised Sutton, and I’m a man of my word.”

“Good. Good.” He grabs a brand-new package of tape and gets to work taping his stick.

“All set?” Hunter asks when he ambles over a few minutes later.

“Let’s do this shit.” I hop to my feet, and Wes does the same.

We all file out into the hallway and toward the ice. Holt leads us out, pausing to push the stacks of warm-up pucks on top of the low boards onto the ice. Everyone goes their separate ways on our side. Holt over to the net to stretch. Hunter and Elias pass the puck between them. I scan the area behind the net where the family and friends of the team usually sit, grinning when I spot Sutton along the glass with the other ladies. She waves, and I lift my stick in greeting.

“You gonna stand there and gawk like a lovesick puppy or actually warm up?” Wes asks from behind me.

I scoff before skating away to do a few laps around our half of the ice. Eventually, I make my way over to where the ladies are. Holt is already standing at the glass, his mask in his hand, waving at his daughter who is giggling and clapping.

Sutton greets me with a wave and spins around, showing me the back of her jersey. The one with my name on it. And while I knew she was going to be wearing it, it still sends a thrill up my body to see her in it. I rub a gloved hand against my chest, which feels tight. She presses her palm against the glass, and I take my glove off to hold mine up to hers.

I want this to be real.

The thought hits me out of nowhere, and I take a shaky breath, stepping back. Sutton blows me a kiss, and my smile gets even wider. Hazel bangs on the glass and I turn my attention to her, playing a few rounds of peekaboo with her. She just giggles, covering her eyes with her hand, bouncing in Becca’s arms. I turn my attention back to Sutton, who is watching me with a look on her face I can’t quite place, I waggle my eyebrows at her before waving and heading back to finish my routine.

This is just for show.

That’s what I keep telling myself through warm-ups even though I don’t know if I even believe it.

The game flies by in a whirl of fights and penalties, times where we lead only to have the Mockingbirds score a goal. In the last five minutes, Hunter scores the tying goal, which brings new life to the team.

We line up at center ice for the puck drop after the goal with our second line center taking the face off, which he wins, pulling it cleanly back. He tries to pass it across the ice to one of our other forwards, but the Mockingbirds read the play and take possession of the puck. It’s a race up the ice trying to regain control.

The Mockingbirds converge on Holt in the net, and at the last second, when their center shoots, I fling myself in front of him, blocking the shot.

“Bloody hell.” I get back to my feet and skate to the bench, already feeling the start of a bruise on my hip where the puck hit me.

“Nice save,” Elias says as we pass each other.