Page 138 of This is a Kissing Book

“Number twelve for Chicago,” Oly points out during a brief pause. “Green flag. Look at that hustle.”

“How can you tell he has hustle?” I ask.

“The way he skates. Very determined. Probably the type to bring you soup when you’re sick.”

We’re into the early part of the second period when one of the guys is called for a penalty.

Having more fun than I expected, I say, “Definitely red flag.”

“For sure,” she agrees.

Next, she gives a player a green and red checkered flag when he comes to one of his teammates’ defense after the opponent slammed him into the boards.

I’m laughing at her logic when the game resumes and not a minute later, the announcer’s voice booms through the arena, “Goal scored by number eighty-three, Linc Andresen!”

My blood turns to ice in my veins.

The crowd explodes around me, jumping to their feet as the player in question celebrates near the goal. I watch in horrified fascination as he raises his stick, skating backward with his arms spread wide, accepting congratulations from his teammates.

Even with the helmet obscuring most of his face, I know that posture, those broad shoulders, the way he moves across the ice with powerful grace.

Linc Andresen. My Linc.

My enemy, my boss, my partner in crime, my adventure trailblazer, er, tunnel-blazer, the best kisser on the planet, Linc, is a professional hockey player?

“Juliana?” Oly’s voice sounds like it’s coming from underwater.

I can’t speak. Can’t breathe. The activity in the arena blurs into a watercolor tableau.

The athletic build I admired.

The way he moved on the rink like he’d been doing it all his life.

Why he was so resistant to working at Meridian.

All of it adds up.

I’m so stupid. So foolish.

“Juliana, seriously, what’s wrong?” Oly grabs my arm.

“That’s him,” I whisper.

“Who?” She must not have heard Linc’s name broadcast over the raucous noise in the arena.

“Number eighty-three. That’s Linc.”

Oly’s eyes widen as she processes this information. Then her voice rises an octave. “That’s your Linc?”

I nod, unable to look away as he lines up for a face-off. He’s completely in his element out there, commanding and confident beyond what I’ve already seen. This is who he really is. Not the reluctant businessman learning his father’s trade, but a professional athlete playing in front of thousands of screaming fans.

Oly glares at him from the stands. “Red flag. Red sirens blaring. Alarm bells ringing.”

The rest of the game passes in a fog. I watch him score two more goals, assist another, and celebrate with teammates who adore him. The crowd chants his name. A group of women behind us discuss his dating history.

“He dated Iva Katz,” one says.

“They broke up last year, but there were photos of them together recently,” another adds. “Super cozy at a smoothie shop.”