Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 97994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Two days since we texted.
Two days since he promised he’s going to make things right with Declan.
Ugh, my brother.
If I have to hear one more time from Blaire what a mess his personal life is, I might scream.
Yes, he cheated.
Yes, he didn’t seem to care about anyone but himself in the situation.
Yes, he deserves for someone to put him in his place.
But this cryptic text—
Meet me at the rink. After hours.
—feels like a new level of drama for Declan. So much so that I almost don’t go. Why should I? He and I have so much unfinished business.
Instead, I find myself turning into the practice facility parking lot at exactly 8:00 p.m., because that’s when I was told to be here and, apparently, I am incapable of ignoring my brother, even when I probably should.
The lot is nearly empty when I pull in.
It’s eerie.
The giant gray-and-blue Ice Wolves banner stretches across the front of the building, flapping lazily in the wind. The whole place looks abandoned.
It’s dark, no players walking to their cars, no security directing traffic, no people milling about. No fans hanging around the entrance for autographs, no sense of life.
It feels so wrong.
The rink is never this quiet. Even on off-days there’s someone inside—trainers, interns, equipment guys.
Tonight?
Nothing.
I inhale the scent of ice and sweat that’s still there, but it’s faint, like an echo of itself. No music pumping through the speakers. No smell of popcorn or stale beer.
Just the hum of the Zamboni.
I follow the sound toward the rink and push through the heavy doors to the stands, standing at the top and looking over the arena.
There are lights on over the ice.
And there’s the big, blue Zamboni, circling slowly, smoothing the surface in lazy, methodical lines.
I scan the arena for my brother, stepping down the concrete steps to the rows of empty stands, arms folded against the chill. The air is cold enough to bite at my cheeks.
“Declan?”
The Zamboni makes one more pass, then slows.
Stops.
The driver—an older man with a gray mustache, thick jacket, and Carhartt overalls—kills the engine. The sudden silence feels enormous. He climbs down, wipes his hands on a rag, and looks directly at me.
“Juliette?” he calls.
My stomach drops nervously. “Yes?”
He jerks his chin toward the ice. “This way.”
“Excuse me?”
He gestures again, completely unfazed by my confusion. “We’ve been expecting you.”
Curiouser and curiouser…
I glance around: No Declan. No figure, skating at center ice like some brooding hockey prince.
“Do I need skates?” I ask, because apparently this is happening.
The man chuckles. “Nope.”
He leads me directly onto the rink. The cold is colder down here, and I wish I’d worn a thicker coat. Or—I wish I’d worn a coat, period.
And then I see it.
At center ice.
A table.
A literal round table with two chairs, sitting on the freshly smoothed surface like the world’s most impractical dinner reservation.
A white tablecloth.
Two place settings.
Wine glasses. Wine.
A single candle glowing in the center.
I stop walking and almost fall on my ass. “You have got to be freaking kidding me.”
The Zamboni driver grins, giddy with delight that he’s in on a secret. “Watch your step,” he says, offering me his arm like he’s leading me to a debutante ball.
“How is this even allowed?” I mutter as he helps me onto the ice.
It’s not slippery the way I expect—there’s some kind of thin rubber matting laid down in a path toward the table.
I feel like I’ve wandered into a proposal video on TikTok, except I am not getting engaged—I’m getting emotionally ambushed.
We reach the table. The candle flickers. The arena lights overhead cast everything in an ethereal glow.
It’s beautiful.
It’s ridiculous.
The driver pulls out a chair for me.
“Alright,” I say, heart thudding. “So, where is he?”
The driver gives me a look that’s almost apologetic.
Then he nods toward the far end of the rink.
I turn.
And my stomach drops straight through the ice.
It’s not Declan walking out of the tunnel. It’s Aaron.
Of course it is. Why wouldn’t it be?
He’s not in a suit. He’s in crisp dark jeans and a navy sweater, hands shoved into his pockets. His hair is damp as if he was in the locker room, showering. Several fresh cuts mar the skin at his neck from nicking himself when he shaved.
He stops a few feet away.
And suddenly, I’m left in the middle of a professional hockey rink with the man who both made and ruined my entire week.
“This is whackadoodle,” I say under my breath.
Aaron huffs out a low rumble.
“Was this your plan to get me to show up?”
He nods. “Affirmative.”
Hmph. I have to give him props for that.
“Fine, I’ll admit it. I’m impressed.”
He pulled a fast one over on me.
My mind tries to sort out how that could be possible when the invitation came from my brother. How is it feasible that Aaron is here in his place?
I narrow my eyes at him. “Where is Declan?”