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Tristan.
My wife.
It’s instinct to pump my legs, powering my body towards the Arctic bench and my little blonde with her hand pressed against the glass. She’s smiling. I’m close enough to see the curve of her mouth. Her bare mouth. No lipstick or gloss, just soft skin and bright eyes. Hair falling in soft strands around her flushed cheeks. It’s a miracle I still have the puck. A miracle I’m still upright as relief courses through me.
She’s here. She came. I’m not down and out just yet.
I scoop the edge of my stick under the puck and lift it into the air, watching it sail over the glass and down into the lap of my wide-eyed wife. And as the whistle blows and the ref calls a two-minute minor for the delay of game, I skate to the box grinning because Tristan Grant is in my arena, watching my team, and wearing my jersey.
That’s worth two minutes in the sin bin any day.
There’s a puck in my lap.
There shouldn’t be, not in the middle of regulation play, not onpurpose, but here it is. Smooth and solid and a little wet from the ice, it sits in my lap like a cinder block. I had tried to make it to the rink before the game started, but I had forgotten how awful the traffic could be on game days. I had also forgotten my badge and credentials, which could have let us into the back lot. So after sitting in traffic for fifteen minutes, I’d opened Max’s passenger door and run the last few blocks.
Besides having no makeup, unbrushed hair, a pair of threadbare leggings and an oversized Arctic jersey slipping off my shoulders, I’m also sweaty and gasping for air. I can’t remember the last time I looked this disheveled in public, and now the whole arena is staring at me as the Jumbotron zooms in on the woman who got golden boy Victor Varg to break the rules.
Because that’s exactly what he did.
It’s one thing to be his good luck charm and have him flip a puck over the glass during warmups. There are dozens of rubber discs bouncing around as each team takes shots as the clock counts down to game time. It’s another to send the puck up and over during play.
My eyes move from the gift in my hands to the man on the ice. He wears a half shield on his helmet, but the small strip of polycarbonate doesn’t hide the wink he sends me. A wink that ends up larger than life on the screen. He holds eye contact, lips pulled up in a crooked grin around his mouth guard. My insides free-fall, stomach flipping and intestines twisting, and I bite down hard on my lower lip so I don’t do something mortifying like moan.
“Am I allowed to say something now?” A man says to my left and I turn to come face to face with Vic. Well, Vic’s face.
“You must be Erik and Quinn.” I hold out my hand to shake, but I’m still holding the puck. “Sorry,” I laugh and switch hands.
“Quinn told me to wait to introduce myself,” my… Vic’s brother says.
“So you wouldn’t ruin the moment.” Quinn smacks his chest, and he smiles at her, hearts in his eyes.
“Also, because Vic might have warned us not to scare his wife off during his grand gesture.”
That answered several questions I had brewing and raised a few more.
“He told you about…” I wave my hands around the rink and the crowd, my wedding ring catching the low light in the arena.
“Yes,” Erik nods, “but don’t worry. It’s because I needed help with something similar last year. And I remember pulling strings after a panicked message from Vic so the team could help this man get his girl. Even then, I told myself that I had used my contacts because the publicity was good for the team, but I’m pretty sure I pulled in all my favors in Chicago just because it was Vic who asked. Even if I wasn’t talking to him much back then. I think it’s possible I’ve loved him a lot longer than I want to admit.
“Of course,” Erik is still talking. “He didn’t tell us he was going to get himself thrown in the penalty box. He’s going to get reamed for that one. Did it at least work? Could be worth it if it worked.”
I turn the puck over in my hands. It had already worked. I’m here, aren’t I? Across the rink, the door to the penalty box opens and Vic powers back onto the ice. Robbie slaps a pass in his direction as he blazes across the blue line and breaks for the net.
“Erik,” Quinn has a soft voice and a kind face, but even I can hear the steel in the name. “Stop ruining this. We arehelping, not trying to sabotage Vic.”
Erik gives me a sheepish smile. “Sorry, twin instinct to rib him, but Quinn’s right. We’re just happy to meet our sister-in-law.”
“Well, our sort of sister-in-law.” Quinn bites her lip.
And there it is. I knew it was probable that Vic told his family the whole truth. They know we aren’t married. My anger flares. Did everyone know before I did? Does the team know? Was everyone laughing behind my back?
“I’m not quite your sister-in-law yet,” Quinn blushes as she takes her fiancée’s hand, the diamond on her left ring finger almost blinding me.
“I would marry you now,” Erik tells her, leaning over to press a kiss to her neck and her blush deepens. “You know the piece of paper doesn’t matter. You’re mine and I’m yours. Forever baby.”
Wait… the “sorta” wasn’t about me?
“Did Vic tell you? About me?” I’m not sure I want the answer, but I have to know.
