Page 51 of Love You Always

“Perfect. I’m in. Can I really come watch you?”

“Princess, nothing would make me happier.”

CHAPTER 24

Archer

The ice-o-plex feels colderthan usual. Actually, I’ve never noticed the temperature before. By the time I put on the padding under my pants and jersey and slide on my gloves, I have so much extra layering that I can’t wait to get onto the ice and move around. And once we start playing, I’m only focused on my teammates, my opponents, and the puck.

Tonight is different, though, because I can see Ella sitting on the bleachers in the middle of the WAGS—the wives and girlfriends that make up our unofficial fan club. A few diehards stick around after their games and watch us play, but they don’t care who wins. They’re as likely to be avoiding chores at home as they are to be interested in our team. But the WAGS, they’re our diehard crew, they’re there to cheer us on, whoop and catcall when we score, and generally make us feel like NHL all-stars. I’ve never invited a woman to come watch me play before, but there’s always enough hyped-up adulation from the others to go around.

I’ve also never invited a professional hockey player to substitute for one of our regulars before. But that was before Dominick “Ren” Renaldi became my future brother-in-law and every guy on my rec team started pestering me to bring him out to a game. “He doesn’t want to watch your sorry asses fumbling around the ice,” I’d told them, even though I’m quite proud of our team and our ten-and-two record in the league this season. I wasn’t even going to mention it to Ren because I didn’t want to put him in the uncomfortable place of having to turn me down, but then Beatrix went and brought up this week’s game.

“You should go,” she urged him when I stopped by last week to drop off a taster of the wine we’re about to bottle. So far, I’ve succeeded at keeping my involvement with Ella under wraps because I don’t want my sister in my business, and she’s already running around like a headless chicken now that Ella asked her to quietly put the wedding plans on hold. She didn’t tell Trix the reason, and I can’t explain that she has to work with her public relations team on what to say about splitting with Callum. It all has to be timed right, and she wants her lawyer to weigh in about her adoption prospects if she tries as a single parent.

I’ve tried to push down my fear that she’ll work things out with that ass wipe for the sake of adopting a baby, but things have felt too fragile and perfect to rock the boat with what-ifs.

“I doubt he wants to see a bunch of amateurs bat around a puck.”

“Better yet, you should play!” Trix said.

“You’re hilarious,” I told her, backing out of her kitchen before Ren had to make up some excuse for why he couldn’t come.

“Hey, wait, could I do that? Would that break any of your rules? ‘Cause I’d do it for sure.”

I was halfway down the hall when I heard his response. At least, I thought I heard him correctly. No, he had to be talking to Beatrix about something else entirely. Poking my head back into the kitchen, I prepared myself to hear a discussion between mysister and her fiancé about some questionable sexual position. And I prepared myself to gag.

But Ren was nodding at me and pumping a fist. “Oh, yeah. I’m so in, man.”

It had taken me more than four months after meeting Ren to mention quietly that I play in an amateur ice hockey league. Eventually, my sister outed me, and Ren has been nothing but gracious, offering to watch game tape—as though we have any—and give me pointers. I was so dumbfounded by his interest in joining our team for a game that I found myself nodding and giving him all the details of where and when he needed to show up. Only later did it occur to me that this was the same game I’d invited Ella to come watch. I somehow needed to keep Ren from noticing Ella and reporting back to Beatrix that I’d invited her there.

And here we are. Not only am I playing tonight for the woman I can’t stop thinking about, but I’m doing it in the shadow of one of pro hockey’s biggest stars.

Fuck. Me.

As we warm up and pass the puck around the ice, I sneak a look at where Ella takes a sneaky sip from an insulated coffee mug that I know is full of wine. The complex has a strict no-alcohol rule, and it’s just as strictly ignored by the crew of women who coordinate their mugs of choice and fill them in the parking lot before each game. By the end of the first period, their cheers are always noticeably louder. I’ve never cared one way or another whether people drink at our games, but tonight, I’m kind of hoping Ella forgets her glasses or gets tipsy enough to have wine goggles when it comes to my playing. I want her to have a good time, but the macho idiot in me also wants her to think I’m as talented as Ren. Yes, I know that’s impossible, but a man can dream.

Ella looks adorable with a pink wool scarf wound around her neck and a matching hat with a pompom. Her hair spills over hershoulders and her smile stretches her cheeks as she cups her coffee mug in her hands. The guys on my team and their wives and girlfriends assume Ella is there to watch Ren, which makes more sense than her coming with me.

My chest strains under my jersey as my heart thunders like a drum. I’m in decent shape from running and playing hockey every week, so I know I’m not breathless for lack of fitness. It’s just the effect of her.

It’s an unsettling feeling, one I like a little too much.

“Arch, look alive,” Carson yells as a puck comes sailing toward my shin. I stop it with my stick and send it back where it came from, reminding myself to keep my focus on the ice. The last thing I need is to be caught in dreamland and get hit in the face. Even with a helmet, something like that could knock out a tooth, not to mention the humiliation I’d face.

Casting one more look at Ella, I hope she’s not too cold or bored. The other women seem to be keeping her busy with wine and conversation, so I talk myself down and put on my game face. “We ready, boys?” I shout, looking up at the scoreboard, where the clock is ticking down to our final two minutes before game time.

My teammates bring it in, and we huddle near our team bench. Carson is the captain, but everyone is looking to Ren for direction. Defeat washes over me as I accept that my job tonight is to get out of Ren’s way and let the limelight shine on the guy who deserves it. I’m just a bit player here, but at least I’m in good company with the rest of the guys on my team.

The ref starts our game and our opponent’s entire defense mobs Ren before he can get near the puck. Their defensive strategy seems to be entirely focused on boxing Ren out of the game, which ends up working in our favor. I race to the crease and Carson sends the puck flying toward me. It’s an easy shot on goal, but their goalie is quick, deflecting it back to center ice.

Their guys can’t seem to settle down, leading to an offsidescall and a high-sticking penalty within the first five minutes of the game. Our cheering section goes nuts when the clock starts on our power play. Carson passes to me, and I see a clean opening to take a shot, but I also see Ren, who’s moving away from the pack of defenders. I mentally calculate whether my odds are better taking the shot myself or handing it off to a guy with some of the best stats in the pros. Much as I want to impress Ella, I take the safe bet, passing cleanly to Ren.

A defender backchecks him in a flash, and he loses the tiny opening he has. I fly past him on the ice, giving him a passing opportunity I doubt he’ll take, not when he can easily outmaneuver the defender. I’m well-positioned, but it’s pointless when Ren is faster than everyone out here and quickly finds an opening to move toward goal. All I can do is watch, awed by his grace and speed. It’s what drew me to the sport all those years ago when I picked up a stick and played on roller blades.

But Ren’s skill comes from doing the unexpected. Instead of taking a shot, he bats the puck around the back of the goal with a defender on him and moves back toward center ice. I watch his eyes flick to the stands where our little cheering section is going nuts, chanting “Ren, Ren,” like a mantra. Then he looks at me, and something in his eyes tells me to start moving toward the goal. I do it and watch Ren take another loop around the rink with two defenders chasing him. Which means I’m open. He sees the opportunity, passes me the puck, and I see a clear shot on goal.

I take it. The goalie crouches and tries to block my slapshot, but the angle is too sharp. The puck glides into the net and the goal buzzer sounds, reverberating through the near-empty complex, making the small victory that much sweeter. Only then do I dare glance up into the stands, and there I see Ella jumping up and down, clapping against her coffee mug and screaming my name. Best fucking thing I’ve ever heard.

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