I have my own rituals before every game—putting my left skate on first, tying my laces in a certain way, tapping my stick against the boards three times. And Ophelia’s “weird feelings”? Those aren’t something I take lightly.
The last time she had one of these feelings, Saint, our assistant captain, tore his Achilles’ on the ice just a few hours later. One wrong step, one miscalculated move, and he was out for the season. Then there was the time we got stuck in that brutal Denver blizzard, trapped on the team bus for hours, watching the snow pile up against the windows like we’d never escape. And right before that, she’d looked at me with those same worried eyes through our video call and said she couldn’t shake a strange feeling in her gut.
And it wasn’t just those times, either. The third incident that comes to mind still makes my skin crawl—a couple of years back, she’d had one of those feelings right before I went out for what should’ve been a regular, uneventful practice. That day, one of the rookies took a wild slap shot that missed the net by a mile and hit me square in the face. I ended up in the ER with a concussion and seven stitches just above my eyebrow. If I’d been an inch closer, I could’ve lost my eye.
So yeah. When Ophelia says she has a weird feeling, it gets my attention.
I glance over at her, trying to keep my voice steady. “Okay . . . what kind of weird feeling? Is it . . . about us? Or something else? Is someone on my team breaking a leg?”
She bites her lip, staring out the window as if the answer is somewhere in the darkness outside. “I don’t know,” shemurmurs, almost like she’s talking to herself. “It’s just this . . . this heaviness, like something’s coming, and I can’t stop it.”
Her words settle in the air between us, sinking into my bones. I force myself to stay calm, to breathe. I want to tell her it’s nothing, that she’s probably just anxious after everything that happened today, that there’s no reason to worry. But I know better. Dismissing her instinct feels like tempting fate, and I’ve learned the hard way that fate has a cruel sense of humor.
I reach over, my hand finding hers, squeezing gently. “Hey,” I say, keeping my tone light even though my pulse has picked up. “We’ll handle whatever comes. Together. Okay?”
She turns to me, offering a faint smile, but I can still see the unease in her eyes. And as much as I want to brush it off, to tell myself it’s all in her head, I can’t shake the feeling that she might be right.
Chapter Four
Ophelia
The driveway comes into view,familiar yet somehow different, like an old friend whose edges have changed just enough to make you pause. This place has always been Haydn’s, but today . . . today, it’s supposed to become ours. No more casual overnight bags tossed over my shoulder, no more borrowing his toothbrush and swapping out the head because Iforgot mine. He actually bought me my own fancy electric toothbrush—purple, because he remembered it’s one of my favorite colors.
Today, my entire life is packed into boxes, crammed haphazardly into the back seat as we pull into the driveway. The rest of my belongings are with the movers, following us to this massive, stunning house that overlooks the lake. Soon, everything I own will be here, waiting to be unpacked and scattered across a space that’s no longer just his.
This house . . . it’s now ours.
Ours.
Mine and his.
The thought makes my stomach flip.
Haydn parks the car and cuts the engine, and in the sudden stillness, a tiny spark of panic ignites. It flares brighter with every passing second. I’m leaving behind my cramped little apartment in downtown Portland—the one-bedroom I could barely afford, where the floors creak and the only view is of cracked concrete and rusting fire escapes. Now, I’m about to walk into this sprawling mansion in Lake Oswego with my famous boyfriend, where every window offers a view so picturesque it looks like a scene from a movie.
It feels surreal. Unreal. Almost . . . too real.
The thing is, he’s not just Haydn, an ordinary guy. He’s Haydn Wesford, star goalie for the Orcas—the team Portland practically worships.
In a city that lives and breathes the Orcas, he’s more than just a man—he’s a legend. People stop him on the street for autographs, kids look at him like he’s a superhero, and half the city wears his jersey on game nights.
Confession time: I do too.
Dating Haydn is like dating royalty. Hockey royalty.
And now, here I am, about to slide into his life, his space, as though I belong in this world of vaulted ceilings and floor-to-ceiling windows, game tickets and VIP lounges, cameras flashing every time we step outside. Usually, I’m the person behind the camera—the one capturing the story, not the one in it.
I’m the one who frames the shot, edits the moments, and remains unseen.
Now, the lens feels reversed, and I’m the one who might be captured. It’s unnerving. Thrilling, maybe. Definitely terrifying.
It’s overwhelming, stepping into a life that feels so much bigger than anything I ever imagined for myself. Sometimes it feels like I’m drowning in it—the sprawling house, the carefully manicured lawns, the views of the lake, the quiet prestige that clings to every corner of Haydn’s world. People probably assume I’d be used to this, that Keane Stone and I lived a life of luxury and privilege too. They’d picture private jets, exotic vacations, the kind of romance that belongs on magazine covers.
But with Keane, it was nothing like this.
Yes, there was luxury—beautiful apartments, weekend getaways, dinners at restaurants I’d never be able to afford on my own. But everything was hidden, kept behind closed doors. He was strange in ways that nobody could understand. He hated the spotlight and avoided it whenever he could.
Even when we were about to get married, I was always behind the scenes. Tucked away, barely a whisper in his life. No one knew he even had a girlfriend, let alone a fiancée. And when we were together, it felt like I was hidden, like I existed in a secret world that only he could see.
