Page 128 of Dating Goals
His fingers trace lazy patterns on my back through the sweatshirt.
“I have a game tomorrow,” he murmurs into my hair. “Against Davos.”
“Mmm,” I acknowledge sleepily.
“Promise me you won’t go to the bar.”
“Griffin…”
“Please, Anika. Those guys are still out there. The bar is the first place they’ll look for you. Come to the game instead. I’ll leave tickets for you.”
“The inventory delivery comes at ten tomorrow,” I explain groggily. “I need to sign for it or lose my deposit.”
Griffin sighs. “Then I’m coming with you.”
“You have morning practice.”
“After practice. Before the game.”
“No, I need to go home for clothes and shoes. And a shower. I’ll ask Lars or Colin to meet me there.”
“You’ll come to the game after?”
“Mmm.” I yawn again, already half asleep. “We’ll figure it out tomorrow.”
Griffin’s fingers find mine, intertwining them. “I just want you safe.”
“I know,” I whisper.
We fall silent, our breathing synchronizing. Griffin’s arm tightens around me, and I nestle closer, feeling oddly at home. His steady heartbeat lulling me toward sleep.
“Anika?” His voice rumbles under my ear.
“Mmm?”
“Thomas doesn’t deserve you.”
I smile against his shirt. “Neither do you.”
Just before sleep claims me completely, I feel Griffin press a gentle kiss to the top of my head. The last thing I register is his whispered words.
“I’ve got you, Anika. I promise.”
25
GRIFFIN
Nothing beats the sound of twenty thousand Swiss fans screaming your name. Well, that’s not exactly true. I’d much prefer the sound of one Swiss fan in particular…
Nope. Gotta keep my mind clear.
The scoreboard glows 3-3 with forty seconds left in the third period. Sweat drips into my eyes as I crouch in goal position, my focus narrowing to the puck flying across the ice. Davos’s star forward dekes left, then charges right, his stick a blur as he winds up for what would be the game-winning shot.
My muscles burn from two periods of relentless play, but I’ve settled into that perfect zone where everything slows down, where I can track the puck like it’s moving through Canadian maple syrup.
The puck launches toward me. I stretch, my glove hand extending impossibly far, and snag it mid-air. The crowd erupts.
“McGregor! McGregor!” they chant as I toss the puck to the referee.
