“Uh, read her?” Summer scoffed. “Try devoured every single thing she’s ever written. She’s literally my favorite author. And you’refriendswith her? Allie, can you believe this?”
The name sounded familiar, but it took a minute for it to click. “Wait. The one who wroteSticks and Shadows?” The penalty box—or sin bin—scene in that one lived rent-free in my mind. Talk abouthot.
“Yes!” Summer’s enthusiastic response caused several heads to turn in our direction, but she was too locked in on our conversation to notice. “I was thrilled to hear she got picked up by a traditional publisher, but now we have to wait, like, a whole year for her next book.”
“Could be even longer than that,” Gemma remarked. “She’s due with a baby girl next month, and from the sounds of it, they’ll be trying for a sibling right away.” Under her breath, she added, “Sasha better not get any ideas.”
Summer clasped both hands to her chest. “Aw. Being a girl mom is the best! Please make sure she knows her faithful following will be ready and waiting whenever she decides to get back to writing.”
We’d been so busy chatting that I hadn’t noticed the players leave the ice until the lights dimmed and a pre-game hype video played across the big screen positioned in the middle of the arena. It focused on the home team, featuring highlights from this season, while paying homage to the championships they’d accrued in the past. Then a countdown began, and the crowd roared when the Crush players ran down a tunnel before jumping onto the ice and starting to skate in fast circles.
The Speed also took to the ice during this time, then the starting lineups for both teams were announced, the anthem sung, and before long, the puck dropped at center ice.
Gemma let out a stuttered exhale the first time her husband made a glove save, holding onto the puck until the whistle sounded.
“Sorry,” she murmured. “He just came off long-term injured reserve after almost a year of not playing. The doctors and trainers say he’s ready, but my nerves are shot.”
“What type of injury?” I asked, figuring that, with the length of time spent recovering, it was likely a ligament tear that required substantial rehab.
A violent shudder wracked the body of the pregnant woman by my side. “Car accident.”
Yikes. Must’ve been a bad one to garner that type of reaction.
But at least he’d survived. With my time spent working in the ER, I knew not everyone was that fortunate.
“It was arguably the roughest few months of my life.” Gemma sighed. “Still have nightmares about it, and they probably won’t stop until they catch that son of a bitch.”
My brows drew down. She’d lost me. “I’m sorry?”
“Let’s just say if you ever come face-to-face with my and Enzo’s father, run as fast as you can in the opposite direction.”
Scars strategically hidden beneath black ink flashed before my eyes. It seemed like a sore subject for Gemma, so I bit my tongue, electing to keep to myself that if I ever did find myself in the same room as the man responsible for the abuse my husband endured as a child, I wouldn’t hesitate to give him a big piece of my mind.
Gemma promptly changed the subject. “How are things going with Enzo?”
Oh boy. That was a loaded question.
It wasn’t like I could exactly share with my husband’s sister that we were fucking like the world was about to end at any minute, yet even when we were as close as any two humans could be, he found a way to keep me at arm’s length.
So, I settled for a vague answer. “Fine.”
Summer snorted. “Better than fine from what you told me earlier about that thing where he took your legs and—”
A gagging noise sounded from Gemma. “My morning sickness is going to make a sudden reappearance if I have to listen to details about my brother’s sex life.”
I covered my flaming face with my hands, muffling my muttered “sorry.”
We went back to watching the game, and I marveled at the fluid movements of the players, how effortlessly they skated despite their footwork looking complicated as hell. They exerted such physical effort that they were gassed after each thirty-second shift, and it began to make sense why women sought out romance novels featuring athletes playing this sport. I mean, who wouldn’t want a man who exerted that level of agility and power?
Near the end of the first period, a familiar voice said low in my ear, “Sorry I’m late.”
Twisting around in my seat, I exhibited a damn Pavlovian response, panting when I laid eyes on Enzo, because any time I did, a guaranteed orgasm was on the horizon.
“What took you so long?” I breathed out.
Ignoring my question, he did a slow visual sweep of my body and groaned. “Fuck, you look good enough to eat. Please tell me I don’t need to wait until we get home to have a taste.”
“For the love of God. When I begged not to hear about the specifics of your bedroom activities, I didn’t mean that I wanted to witness a live show instead.”
