Page 31 of Enticing the Enforcer
Jefferson’s helmet is off, blond hair damp and curling around his temples, cheeks flushed with victory. He’s laughing with his teammates, but the second his eyes cut toward me, everything stops. At least, it feels like it does. The sound, the movement, the chaos–all of it fades under the weight of his gaze.
And in that split second, I’m exposed.
It’s painfully, humiliatingly obvious: I shouldn’t be here. Not on this ice, not in this moment, not in his world. The other girlfriends wear team colors, fitted jerseys with their boyfriends’ numbers. They belong. They’ve earned this spot.
Me? I’m just… me. Too shiny. Too loud. Tooother.
I don’t belong.
“Ingrid.”
My eyes snap away from his–away from Jefferson’s easy grin, the sweat still dripping down his temple–to the reporter calling my name.
Marv is already there, sliding between us like a shield, all business as he shuts it down with a clipped shake of his head.
In the same breath, Jefferson’s coach claps a heavy hand on his shoulder and steers him back toward his team.
Just like that, the moment splinters–him pulled one way, me the other.
But you can’t really break something apart that was never together in the first place.
11
Jefferson
Hours later,after the arena finally kicked us off the ice and out of the locker room, we’re back at the hotel, the team’s celebration in full swing. Exhausted but still humming with adrenaline, I sink onto one of the couches in the lounge, letting the noise wash over me. Plates of food litter the tables. Drinks flow for the over-twenty-one crowd. The guys are loud, laughing, replaying moments from the game with that messy, joyful energy only winners know.
My parents were at the game, proud and congratulatory, and after catching up, they went back to the hotel with some of the other families in town. My phone has been buzzing all night. Family and friends sending their congratulations. Old teammates from the Junior’s league, my high school coach, and a dozen puck bunnies back at Wittmore. The latter is letting me know they’re up to celebrate when I get back to town.
Those aren’t the messages that catch my eye. They’re nice enough, but the alerts I’ve set up keep flashing. Ingrid’s name pops up, over and over. The news that she was at the gametonight, sitting with the WAGs, has ignited a wildfire online. Comments, articles, gossip–the level and speed that it traveled… well, it’s fucking insane.
“Me!”I want to shout.“She came to see me!”
There’s not a goddam thing I can do or say about it. Not if I want her to trust me.
Not if I want to see her again.
I keep going back to the last text she sent me.If you win the game tonight, I’ll show you what I’ve been thinking about in person.
That line alone makes my chest tighten. Makes the entire night sharper, more electric.
A coach from Florida, the team I’m committed to playing professionally next year, sidles up. “Congrats, Parks. You were on fire tonight. Bring that kind of energy down to the Surge and you might have a second trophy to your name.”
I shrug, trying to downplay it. “There’d be no bigger honor than winning the Cup for the team, sir.”
The truth? Iwason fire tonight. Every shift, every hit, every sprint down the ice had a purpose beyond just the team. Winning for Wittmore, giving Reese the victory that slipped through our fingers last year, making Coach proud of taking a chance on me four years ago… that was all part of it.
But the real fire? That came from her.
The girl up in the stands, the one with the pouty lips, the purple hair tucked under a hat. The one who had my attention the moment I saw her. I wanted to impress her. Prove that I was worth noticing. Worth showing up for, risking exposure.
Worthher.
I can still see her, mid-cheer, eyes wide, hands gripping the glass, energy spilling into the arena like it was part of the game itself. The goal I scored tonight was for her. Every shift I threw my body into, every hit I took, every sprint. I wanted her toknow I was capable. That I could rise to the challenge. That I was worthy of someone as special as she is.
And now, sitting here, surrounded by food, laughter, and the leftover chaos of our victory, I can’t stop thinking about what happens next. About that text. If that was serious or just part of the game.
I scroll my phone again, trying to stay casual, but the thought of her has me wired tighter than any game-winning buzzer. Tonight isn’t just a win for Wittmore. Tonight is personal.
