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But before the referee drops the puck on center ice, the announcer starts up again. “Tonight we have a special guest with us! Ladies and gentleman, give it up for Mitch ‘The Machine’ Anderson! We’ve missed you, man!”

The crowd erupts again, mostly cheering, but a fair amount of booing too. The Jumbotron zooms in on Mitch, and I lean as far away from him as possible, so as not to be on the Jumbotron. No, thank you.

Mitch’s face is stoic as he looks at the camera and gives it a small salute. No smile, no kisses, no attention-seeking behavior. Just the same stony face I’ve come to expect. And hell if it doesn’t make me smile all the same.

Thankfully, the camera doesn’t slide over to me, or to Noah, and the arena quiets down for the puck drop.

Throughout the game, Mitch calmly explains what’s happening, not in a condescending, mansplaining way…. but just filling me in on the rules of the game. Some of it I’ve figured out from watching Noah’s games, but a lot of the information is new, and helpful.

With each bit of commentary from Mitch, I swear he scoots closer and closer to me. When one of the Eagles forwards gets sent to the penalty box, I swivel on my stool to look over at Mitch, meaning to ask why the player was penalized… but I hadn’t realized how close he’d scooted to me and the movement makes my knees bump against his. He doesn’t move away, and I don’t either. I have the overwhelming desire to rest my palm on his muscular thigh, I can practically feel my hand itching to move in that direction.

Instead, I focus on his face, which is a mere six inches from mine. My eyes quickly steal a glance at his lips. They’re set in a straight line, of course, but at this close distance they look softer and more full than I expected. I’ve never kissed a guy with a beard, and my mind can’t help but wonder what it would feel like. I allow my eyes to dip down to his suit too. He looks so dapper, so perfect, practically edible. But I have to admit I miss those long-sleeved tees he wears when working with Noah, the ones he scrunches up during practice to show off those incredible tattooed forearms.

I blink a few times and look back up to his hazel eyes. His gaze is on my lips and a little thrill runs through my body at the idea. When his eyes flick up to meet mine, I note that his eyes are more green than brown today. The hunter green of his suit brings out the green flecks in his eyes in a way that makes it difficult to breathe.

We sit like that for a moment, looking at each other in a blatant way we haven’t allowed before. Like in this moment, we’re both silently acknowledging our attraction, that we don’t actually hate each other. The noise in the arena and Noah’s conversation with the Eagle’s general manager fade into the background. All I see is Mitch, his kissable lips, his eyes piercing straight through mine like he can read my every thought. All I feel is his knee against mine. All I hear are his quiet but steady breaths.

Quiet and steady, just like the man.

If we were truly alone at this moment, I’m 99.9% sure he would kiss me. And if he didn’t… I’m 100% sure I’d kiss him. I imagine how I’d do it: my hand on his thigh, my chin tilting upward, letting him know my intentions. I’d pause, allowing him the chance to say no. But he wouldn’t. He’d close the distance and take over, kissing me fervently.

At least, that’s how I imagine it would go.

“Andie,” Noah tugs on my sleeve. I close my eyes and take a deep breath before turning away from Mitch’s searing gaze and his warm knee against mine. I plaster a smile on my face and pretend I wasn’t just about to drag my little brother’s hockey coach into the storage closet—if this room even has one of those. “Mr. Parker says we can meet the team after the game.”

“Haven’t we already met most of them?” I ask in a teasing tone.

Tom Parker chuckles. Noah’s jaw drops in offense. “Not even close. I’ve only met four of them!”

“You’ve met the most important one,” Mitch says, leaning in so Noah can hear him. His chest grazes against my shoulder in the process and I struggle not to flinch with the contact.

Noah scoffs. “Whatever.”

Noah goes back to his conversation with Tom and I excuse myself to the restroom to compose myself after… after what? Grazing shoulders with Mitch Anderson? I’m pathetic.

When I come back to our box, I feel normal again. Until I spot Mitch, who’s now in Tom’s spot beside Noah. They’re leaning into one another, chatting about the game. One of the Eagles players scores a goal and they both clap and cheer. Tom must’ve left for general manager duties, but I’m grateful for the break from sitting next to Mitch. I can’t handle the arm grazing, and the knee touching, and the silent glances any longer. A woman can only take so much.

I sit down and notice the bar is lined with food now. There’s nachos, sodas, popcorn, cotton candy, and corn dogs. Whew, something to do with my hands—and mouth—besides running them all over Mitch Anderson.

Speaking of Mitch, he’s not partaking in the junk food. Instead, he has a grilled chicken salad in front of him with a bottle of water and a protein shake. He looks up at me when I sit down and sees me eyeing his food.

“My suspension is over soon, I need to eat for peak performance,” he explains.

If the Mitch I’ve seen over the last month hasn’t been at peak performance, how am I going to resist him when he’s at peak performance?

I nod, not trusting myself to say words at the moment. Grabbing a corn dog, I take a big bite, extra incentive not to speak and say something stupid about his peak performance.

Noah’s attention is back on the ice, happily watching the game. He’s also chowing down on nachos and soda. I foresee a late night. But it’s his birthday, after all. I’ve been freaking out all week that he’d be so upset today. His first birthday without Mom and Dad. But thanks to the big man sitting with us, his birthday was amazing.

Mitch keeps surprising me and helping out when I least expect it. If someone would’ve told me a month ago that Noah would make friends with a pro hockey player and start actually enjoying life again, I wouldn’t have believed them. And if they would've told me he’d be our biggest source of support, besides Ronda, I would’ve laughed in their faces.

Mitch ‘The Machine’ Anderson is a good man. A damn good man. But something tells me he doesn’t see himself that way.

Three things I’m grateful for today; Mitch Anderson, his goofy teammates, and surprisingly enough… hockey.

* * *

“Right down this tunnel is the locker room, but let me warn them so you don’t walk into a bunch of naked hockey players,” Tom tells me as he leads us toward the Eagles locker room.