Page 30 of Enticing the Enforcer
Below, the puck whips across the ice, stick to stick so fast I almost miss it. Then Jefferson cuts toward the net, skimming past the St. Alden’s defender, shoulders down, blades spraying ice as he pivots.
“Here it comes,” Nadia murmurs, leaning forward with both hands braced on her knees.
It happens in a blur–the sharp crack of his stick, the puck sailing past the goalie’s glove, the light flashing. The crowd erupts, a wall of sound so loud I feel it in my chest.
“YES!” Twyler jumps to her feet, her plate of food tumbling to the floor. Shelby and Nadia cling to one another in an excited embrace.
And me? I’m frozen. My heart’s in my throat, my palms slick. Because Jefferson isn’t celebrating with the guys who swarm him, not really. His helmet’s still on, but his gaze lifts, and I swear he looks straight up at our box. Straight at me.
Everything around me fades, I can’t hear anything over the rush in my ears. He’s smiling–wild, unstoppable. I’ve never been so turned on in my life.
I sink back into my seat, trying to act like I’m not completely undone, but it’s useless.
Two kisses and this man is fully under my skin. What happens if I let him in any further?
It all comes downto the final moments of the game. Wittmore’s up by one, and St. Alden’s pulling every desperate move they have left. The intensity is not like anything I’ve ever felt before. Winning in my world isn’t like this. The Grammys, the MTV statues, and gold records… there’s no clock winding down, no other player breathing down my neck, fighting over the same little puck. This is raw. Heated.Violent.The puck cuts across the ice like a blade, a St. Alden’s forward winding up with everything he’s got.
He fires.
Axel drops low, pads snapping shut like a steel trap, and swallows the shot whole.
The buzzer blares.
For half a heartbeat there’s silence–like the entire arena inhales at once–and then it erupts. Sheer pandemonium. Fans on their feet, screaming themselves hoarse, the sound shaking the rafters. White and navy towels whip through the air like a storm. Players swarm Axel, piling on top of each other in ecstasy.The pile grows as teammates from the bench join, everyone laughing and shouting over one another. Wittmore did it, they won the Frozen Four.
“Come on!” Twyler shrieks, practically vibrating out of her seat, clutching my wrist with manic excitement.
“Where are we going?” I ask, still blinking, still trying to make sense of the chaos unraveling below.
“Down on the ice to celebrate,” Nadia says, already halfway to the stairs. Her tone makes it sound like the most obvious thing in the world.
“We can do that?”
“Hell yeah we can,” Twyler grins, already halfway down the aisle.
I follow, Marv quickly catches up and he gives me that hard, don’t-even-think-about-it look. “Ingrid, I don’t recommend?—”
I cut my gaze to him. “Just one night,” I ask–no, beg. “I just wantonenight of normalcy.”
But I know better. It’s an impossible ask. Not even close to realistic. During intermission, the cameras found me, zoomed in tight, and splashed my face across the jumbotron. The crowd reaction had been split right down the middle. Some hockey fans weren’t thrilled I’d infiltrated their sport. But the cheers had been there too, that ripple of excitement that always comes when I show up somewhere unexpected.
Madison leaned over after the third intermission and whispered, “They’re saying you’re sitting in the WAG box.”
I’d shaken it off, but the weight lingered. Imposter syndrome heavy in my chest as we trail Marv, who nods us through security. We pile into a private elevator, then down a hushed hallway until we spill out into a tunnel leading straight onto the ice and the scene explodes before us. The players are involved in a post-game handshake line. Wittmore’s team glides along theice, shaking hands with St. Alden’s, sportsmanship in motion, and the defeated team nods, smiles forced but respectful.
We’re not allowed on the actual ice, but Twyler works her way to the edge of the wall–a part not walled off by glass. I don’t miss the tears at the corner of her eyes when the captains–Jefferson included–lift the trophy high for the first time. The crowd roars. No superstition here, just pure joy. The captains pass the trophy down the line, and every player skates a lap with it aloft, grinning, sweat and triumph mixing on their faces.
The players are everywhere–sweaty, red-cheeked, towering on their skates. They’re shouting, laughing, hugging, stopping for reporters. Pure joy and chaos.
And then they see us.
Reese makes a beeline toward Twyler. His dark hair soaked with sweat. He grabs for her and lifts her over the wall, spinning her around. “I knew it,” I see her mouth. “I love you.”
I glance away from the intimacy, and lock eyes with steel gray.
Heseesme.
The world tilts on its axis.
