Total pages in book: 21
Estimated words: 18799 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 94(@200wpm)___ 75(@250wpm)___ 63(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 18799 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 94(@200wpm)___ 75(@250wpm)___ 63(@300wpm)
The Knights’ arena is a cathedral of glass and steel, vibrating with a low-frequency energy that I feel in my teeth before I even step inside. I’m ushered through a private entrance, my pass dangling from a lanyard that feels like a heavy weight around my neck. The VIP elevator is quiet, the carpet plush enough to muffle the sound of my boots, creating a vacuum of silence before the storm of the family lounge.
When the doors slide open, the noise hits me first. I scan the room, feeling like an interloper in a secret society. A woman with perfectly coiffed blonde hair and a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes detaches herself from a group near the window. She’s wearing a jersey, too, but hers is tailored, encrusted with subtle crystals along the seams.
“You must be Rory,” she says, her voice as smooth as polished ice. She extends a hand, her grip firm. “I’m Sarah, Coach Radcliff’s wife.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say, keeping my voice steady despite the way my heart is currently trying to perform a drum solo against my ribs. “Ryan’s told me the team is like a family. I was looking forward to seeing him in his element.”
Sarah tilts her head, her gaze sweeping over my jersey. Then, her smile softens, turning genuine in a way that catches me off guard. “Honey, if you’re wearing the actual game-weight fabric instead of the glitter version, you’re already one of us. Come on, the wine is decent, and the view of the warm-ups is even better.”
She leads me toward a row of leather seats behind a glass partition. As I sit, I see the ice below, a brilliant, blinding white under the stadium lights. And there he is. Number thirty-four. Ryan is moving with a grace that seems impossible for a man of his size, his skates carving deep, rhythmic grooves into the surface. He looks different out there. He’s focused, his jaw set, his movements sharp and economical.
Beside me, another woman settles into the seat, a toddler bouncing on her lap. “Let me know if you need anything,” she says, nodding toward the ice.
“Thank you,” I murmur and glance out at the ice to see Ryan stop at the boards, spraying a fine mist of ice into the air. He looks up, his eyes scanning the family section with a deliberate, searching intensity. When he finds me, he doesn't wave. He doesn't smile. He just taps his stick twice against the ice and holds my gaze for a heartbeat. It’s a private signal in a very public room, and it makes my breath catch in a way that has nothing to do with the air conditioning.
The game starts with a roar that shakes the glass. It’s a blur of violence and speed, the sound of bodies hitting the boards echoing like gunshots. I find myself leaning forward, my hands clenched in my lap, tracking the blue jersey with the number thirty-four. Every time a rival player gets near him, my stomach twists. Every time he takes a hit, I find myself holding my breath until he clears the puck. This whole fake relationship is starting to feel way too real.
In the second period, the energy in the arena shifts, tightening into a coiled spring. Ryan intercepts a pass near the blue line, his movements explosive. He weaves along the ice, a mountain of a man moving with the precision of a scalpel. The crowd rises as one. He winds up, the sound of his shot a sharp crack that cuts through the cheering. The puck disappears into the net before the goalie can even blink.
The siren is deafening, a physical wall of sound. Ryan’s teammates swarm him, thumping his helmet and shoulders, but as they pull away, he turns toward the glass. He points a gloved hand directly at the family section, directly at me. My heart does a slow, heavy roll in my chest that feels a lot like falling.
I spend the rest of the game in a daze, the cheering of the crowd sounding like it’s coming from underwater. When the final horn blares, signaling a Knights victory, I’m the first one out of my seat, driven by an urgency I can’t quite explain.
The post-game wait is longer than I expected. I stand near the player exit, feeling the heat of the game still radiating from the hallway. When Ryan finally emerges, he’s still damp from the shower, his hair messy and his skin flushed. He’s wearing a navy blue polo shirt and tight jeans that cause my pulse to race. He stops in front of me, his shadow falling over me, and for a moment, we just stand there.
“I’m glad you could come,” he says, his breath brushing against the side of my neck, sending electricity flowing down my spine.