Page 126 of Break the Ice
The announcer’s voice echoes around the arena. Thousands of fans scream their excitement.
The Jumbotron highlights different people throughout the crowd. Anytime someone’s featured, their eyes widen and they jump up and down, waving at the screen.
I’m surrounded by the overzealous fanfare, seated in a front row seat behind the glass. I can’t help smiling every time the crowd goes wild for one of the Wolves. The announcer fires off the player names for the starting lineup, and they lose it each time. For Rafe, known as Alpha by teammates, competitors, and fans alike, the crowd becomes a torrent of sound.
The entire arena feels like it shakes from the sheer volume of their screams and applause.
I look up at the huge screen now panning over the ice.
Rafe’s skated onto the floor, his messy chocolatey brown hair pushed back and a grin slanted across his mouth. Just the sight of him makes my heart pitter-patter.
As if sensing my stare, he looks over. His gaze picks mine out of thousands around us and the corner of his lip quirks a quarter inch wider. He winks, then redirects his attention to the rest of the team as they get ready for the first period.
Too many people in the stands crane their necks for a look at the woman Rafe Golding was looking at. Several women specifically glare my way. Though I’m the last person to be shy, my face burns from the sudden attention.
We’re still adjusting to being public.
The last year has been surreal.
It’s still so much to process—exactly three hundred and sixty-five nights ago, I turned up at the Onyx Hotel for the Wolves’ event. Hawk invited me up to his penthouse and then fed me roofied alcohol. If not for Colt intervening when he had to eliminate the team owner, I could’ve been a lot worse off.
Three hundred and sixty-five nights later, I’m seated front row at the Wolves’ game against their rivals, the Trojans. Hawk is long dead—Mr. Golding and Mr. Blackman too—and things couldn’t have worked out better for us.
The police officially closed their investigation. They concluded Eliot Golding took out his old nemesis Jasper Hawk in revenge for past sabotage. He killed others like Quigley Blackman and Detective Gomez in his attempt to cover his tracks.
Then, when he realized there was nowhere else left to run and the Seattle PD was closing in on him, he committed suicide.
Rafe and I spent our first few months dating keeping our relationship a secret. We eventually went public with a carefully crafted story about how we’d grown closer grieving the losses the Wolves and the Golding family had suffered.
The public ate it up.
Rafe was put on the cover of every magazine in existence, everything from Sports Illustrated to TIME. He was given several sit-down specials with renowned journalists from various news networks.
He’s currently the professional athlete with the most endorsement deals of any sport.
My career has been booming too.
I left my position as the Wolves PR consultant only a few months after Hawk’s death. But it was nothing to be disappointed about—I had been offered a newer, better position working as ESPN’s director of public relations.
It’s been an opportunity out of my dreams. Finally I’ve reached a position of power in the sports world. From where I started, a young and naive female athlete being manipulated by a much older and married coach, it’s my life’s dream realized.
But I’m still Team Wolves.
I attend Rafe’s games whenever I can—and opt for the front row vs. the sky box. I’ve dressed low-key, in a navy-blue Wolves beanie, my thick curls sticking out like clouds. I’m donning Rafe’s jersey—one from his own collection, notes of his cologne tickling my sense of smell—that I’ve paired with boots and jeans.
It’s not so easy to be low-key when Rafe’s winking over at me.
Jhene nudges me from my side. “He’s obsessed with you. He can’t stop glancing over here.”
The flush on my skin only warms. “Things have been good.”
“Mhm,” Jhene hums. “More like you need to hook me up! His teammate Kai’s cute.”
The game kicks off with a scuffle between the Wolves and Trojans over possession of the puck. It’s easy to lose yourself in the fast-paced gameplay. Both teams are hypnotic as they streak across the ice handling their sticks like they’re extensions of themselves.
Rafe steals the puck and drives it straight down the rink. He takes the shot and manages to skirt it past the goalie. More than half of the arena erupts in wild cheers. I’m one of them. I’m up on my feet, screaming and clapping out of pride.
Jhene’s laughing silently to herself when I go to reclaim my seat.
