So why am I still thinking about it?
Her lips part slightly, and I wonder if she’s thinking about it too.
Neither of us moves.
The moment stretches, elastic and fragile. One of us should do something—say something, close the gap, or step back.
She breaks first. “Goodnight, Banks.” Her voice is softer than usual, a little breathless.
“Goodnight, Win.”
She slips my jacket off her shoulders and hands it back to me. Our fingers brush during the transfer—a whisper of contact that I feel all the way up my arm.
Then she’s in her car, the engine starting, pulling out of the space.
I stand there like an idiot, watching her taillights disappear into the night. Something tight in my chest that I can’t name.
The walk back to my truck feels longer than it should. I climb in, start the engine, and sit there in the dark for a minute, trying to process everything that just happened.
She remembered the protein bars.
She made me sound like a good person.
She looked at me like I was worth looking at.
And I almost kissed her. In an empty parking lot, with no one around to see, I almost kissed her anyway.
This isn’t real, I remind myself.
Chapter Twelve
Blood on the Ice
Winnie
“You’ve really never been to a hockey game?”
Tori looks at me like I’ve just admitted I’ve never eaten pizza or seen the sun.
“I’ve watched them on TV,” I offer weakly. “Parts of them. When I was flipping channels.”
“That doesn’t count.” She grabs my arm and steers me through the crowd toward the arena entrance. “This is going to change your life. Trust me. One game and you’ll either be obsessed or traumatized. There’s no in-between.”
The Knights’ home arena is buzzing with thousands of fans in blue and white jerseys. The energy is electric, palpable, like the building itself is vibrating with anticipation. Vendors hawk overpriced beer and hot dogs. Kids clutch foam fingers and bags of colorful cotton candy. Everyone seems to know exactly where they’re going except me.
I feel like a tourist in my own city.
Tori navigates the chaos with practiced ease, flashing credentials at security checkpoints andleading me up escalators until we reach a section near the glass. The seats are incredible—close enough to see individual players, to hear the crack of sticks against ice.
“WAG section,” Tori explains, settling into her seat. “Wives and girlfriends. Though technically I’m a fiancée, so I’m in a gray area.”
“And I’m a fake girlfriend, so I’m in an even grayer area.”
“Shh.” She elbows me. “No one here knows that. As far as they’re concerned, you’re Banks Callahan’s woman, and you’re here to support your man.”
My man. The words feel strange. Foreign.
“There are other girlfriends here?”
