“What,” I say. My voice is not steady. I do not care.
“I’m going to sit here with you until the embers die out,” he blinks. “And then I’m going to take you inside, put you in Piper’s guest room, and get you a glass of water.” A pause. “And tomorrow, when you’re drinking your oat milk latte and pretending this was purely situational, I’m going to let you.”
I stare at him. “And then?”
He grins. The one I have spent four weeks pretending I don’t think about. “And then,” he grins, “you’re going to ask me to do this again. Sober. On purpose. And I’m going to say yes.”
“That is extraordinarily presumptuous.”
“Tell me I’m wrong.”
I can’t. He knows I can’t. He tucks me against his shoulder with the effortless confidence of someone who is fully aware of what he’s doing. His arm wraps around me, and the last remnants of the ember’s warmth dissipate into the dark yard. I sit there, the superstar bracelet resting against my arm, fourglasses of wine ingested, and the bulk of a decision that has been weighing heavily on me for weeks settling secretly in an Adirondack chair in Piper Maddox’s backyard. “Don’t say anything smug,” I say.
“I’m not saying anything.”
“You’re thinking it.”
“Loudly,” he agrees.
The fire dies completely. He doesn’t move. Neither do I. “Max,” I say.
“Still here.”
“One thing.”
“Yeah.”
“Tomorrow,” I say. “When I pretend this was situational.”
“Mm-hm.”
“Let me have that. For at least an hour.”
He turns his head, and his mouth brushes my hair, and it is not quite a kiss, and it registers anyway. “Deal,” he agrees.
The night settles in around us, chilly October air, and his arm solid and warm over the blanket he’s tugged back up around my shoulders. Somewhere inside the house, Chase is with Piper. The kids are in their beds. The city hums in the distance. I close my eyes. The last thing I register is his hand, slow and warm in my hair. And the bracelet. And that I am completely, categorically done pretending.
Chapter Nineteen
Toni Amato
The suite level at Guardians Arena feels less like professional hockey and more like a very expensive daycare with alcohol. I realize this approximately four minutes after arriving.
“Elena,” Piper says, appearing beside us in a cream sweater and jeans, with one child balanced on her hip and another attached to her leg like a determined barnacle. “You made it!”
Elena lights up instantly. “I would like you to know I wore waterproof mascara in case the hockey becomes emotional.”
Piper blinks once. “You’re going to fit in beautifully here.”
“I already adore her,” Scarlett announces from the sectional near the glass. She’s sprawled sideways with impossible elegance, black boots crossed at the ankle, champagne in hand. “Anybody who treats sports like theater is my kind of woman.”
“It is theater,” Elena says. “They’re giant men on kniveswith unresolved emotional issues.” Harper Knox snorts into her wine. I remove my coat slowly, already regretting every decision that brought me here.
The suite itself overlooks the ice from center rink, floor-to-ceiling glass stretching across the entire front wall. The arena glows beneath us in blue-white light while music pounds through the speakers and fans pour into the lower bowl carrying jerseys and beer and enough collective adrenaline to power several small countries. Elena walks directly to the glass.
Then stops. “Oh,” she breathes. The team is skating warmups. Max circles through the neutral zone with easy, loose strides, helmet off, hair damp from pregame, tapping fists with Knox near the bench before flipping a puck over his stick without looking. Elena slowly turns toward me. “Oh no,” she says.
“What?”
