“Why are you telling me all this?”
“Too much trauma dumping?” he asks.
“No,” I say quickly, shifting to face him. “That’s not what I mean—”
“I know what you mean,” he cuts in gently.
He’s quiet, jaw flexing as he looks back at the waves. “I don’t know when it happened, Jessica,” he says. “If there was a moment, or if it just… built over time. But somewhere along the way, I started caring about you.”
I blink, eyes wide.
“Don’t look surprised. I’m sure you’ve noticed.”
I grin, because, yeah. I have.
“Is this your way of confessing feelings?”
The corner of his mouth lifts into that slow, lazy smile.
Then he goes quite for a while, almost distant, before he shrugs and starts again.
“I got the greenlight,” he says, letting the glass dangle from his fingers.
“For what?”
“The Youth Academy.” He looks at me, pride shining in his eyes.
It takes a second. Then I remember Tinnie mentioning it before—something about image rehab, sponsorship leverage. Corporate speak I didn’t really get. But the way Dom says it now, I can see what it means to him.
“That’s…” I sit up straighter. “That’s amazing. Tell me more.”
“It’s going to be a training program. With support staff, scholarships, full medical coverage, everything. Year-round access to rinks, gear, coaches.”
“And it’s for kids who want to play hockey?”
“It’s for kids who need it or are just curious,” he says. “Whether they want to go pro or just need a reason to show up to something that gives them aplace to go, play, be part of a group. I’ve seen too many kids burn out and get overlooked. The system’s fucked if you don’t have money or the right parents. If you want in, you need access. I want to change that.”
So this is the man beneath the ice. This is Dom’s heart. And it’s a good one.
I blink fast, trying not to get misty.
“You made it happen,” he says.
“Me? How?”
“You were the story,” he shrugs. “You changed the narrative. Sponsors wanted the good-guy image, and the fake-girlfriend thing reformed that.”
So this is why he agreed to this. Why he let me into his house and tolerated me. For the kids.
“You made it believable even when it wasn’t,” he says. “You made me believable.”
I stare at him. For once I don’t have anything smart to say. He’s looking at me like I’m the thing that changed his life.
I lift my champagne flute. “To that,” I say softly. “To the version of you I’m seeing right now.” I tap my glass to his. “I like him.”
“So there’s a version of me you don’t like?” Dom winks, clinking his glass with mine.
“I didn’t say that.” I arch a brow.
