Page 62 of Left-Hand Larceny
My brain is all over the place, a train with burnt out brakes speeding down a mountain pass. My heart’s still galloping from my conversation with Tristan as I watch Ragnar glide out of the tunnel, his focus razor sharp, eyes locked on the puck as it drops at center ice. God, he’s so good at this. He looks effortless out there, even with the blades strapped to his feet and the pounds of extra padding covering his legs. Strong, calm, precise. Like he was born to do this. He was.
I rest my fingertips against the plexiglass, my palms sweating even though it’s decently chilly in here. It’s a pretty full house, but I swear preseason games feel colder than regular. And I actively sweat during playoffs. My eyes track every move Ragnar makes, but my mind won’t shut up.
Tristan’s words keep looping. “If you two ever did want to make it official…”
I want to laugh and groan at the same time. Because… yeah. That’s the problem, isn’t it? I want that. I want to throw away all the stupid pretense and just—ask him out. Invite him over. Kiss him until we’re both dizzy. I want to be the one he picks up in a bar, no talking required, and takes back to his bed. I’m sure he knows what he’s doing there. I want all of that and I know he does, too.
It’s easy, right now, to forget why I’m not going for Ragnar Ólaffson. He all but admitted he’d say yes. That he’s had a thing for me for a while. But then I remember the way he looked at me that first day we made this deal. How he asked for help. He trusted me. He didn’t ask for a date. He could have, but he didn’t.
I close my eyes for a second, breathing out slowly. I can’t muddy the waters. I can’t be selfish. He trusted me. He’s trusted me with his rehab, with his confidence, with this new version ofhimself that he’s trying so damn hard to build. I owe it to him to keep this professional. Clean. Even if my stomach twists every time he smiles at me. Even if I feel like my skin’s still buzzing from when he grabbed my wrist earlier, even though it was only for a second.
I watch as he drops into a butterfly save, trapping the puck under his glove like it’s nothing. The crowd roars. His teammates tap their sticks against the ice. Ragnar looks up at the Jumbotron, then out around the arena.
My chest swells with pride. And something else.
Something messy and complicated and dangerous.
Because, yeah. I want him.
Not just in the stupid, superficial way. Not just his body—even though, hello, yes, have you seen him?—but his kindness. His steadiness. The way he looks at the world like it’s harsh and cruel and unforgiving, but he’s willing to stand his ground, anyway.
I bite my lip, eyes locked on him as he skates a lazy circle, waiting for the next face-off.
I want all of it.
But I can’t.
Not now.
Not when he’s counting on me to keep this simple.
I press my palm flat against my chest, trying to calm my racing heart. I force my focus back to the game, watching every move like my life depends on it. Ragnar skates out again, then settles back into his crease like he belongs there.
God help me, I don’t think this is just a crush. I think I’m falling for him.
And I have no idea what the hell to do about it.
The third period starts, and everything ramps up. The other team is desperate to get on the board, and they throw everything they have at him. Shot after shot, crash after crash. Playgets messier, the defense unable to keep the puck completely contained to the opposition’s zone. My nails dig into my palm with every collision near the crease. I catch glimpses of his eyes through the cage—ice blue, sharp, unwavering—and it hits me all over again just how much I care about him.
Not just as a player.
Not just as a client.
When the final buzzer sounds and the Arctic skates off with a 3-0 win, the place goes wild.
And Ragnar?
He just had a shutout. He’s the MVP. The first star of the game.
His teammates mob him, slapping his helmet, hugging him, shouting in his ear. He drops to one knee on the ice for a second, head bowed, like the weight of it all just hit him at once.
I’m frozen in place, heart hammering, eyes burning with tears of relief and joy and something deeper, something I don’t even know how to name.
He did it.
He’s back.
And he’s wonderful.
