Page 70 of Put a Rink on It

Stop it, my brain chastises. Except it’s hard to do when I’m sitting in his kitchen, wearing his ring, sleeping with him—literally and sexually—and pretending to play the part of Mrs. Nero Champion.

An alert from my phone pulls my attention from this crazy ass fantasy. I’ve got enough time to shower before my meeting. I’m dreading this discussion with my boss. He’s going to ask me for a list of investors to approach for our newest project, and I’ve barely done any research on the topic.

You could quit on the call, my mind prods somewhat unhelpfully because I may do it.

Give my two weeks’ notice and be done. Move on, let Nero support me for the time being until I can find something I’m excited about.

The longer I consider it, the more appealing it sounds.

The question is, do I have the balls to follow through?

CHAPTER 22

marina

The Montreal rink is cooler than others, and I slip my arms into Nero’s Nauts jacket. It’s huge on me but will keep me warm. I’m sure it’s a mindset thing, but being in Canada tricks my mind into thinking it’s colder, even when it’s not true. Even the hot coffee I treated myself to—using Nero’s card—seems to have cooled off.

This is my first visit to the league’s largest arena, which has been renovated in recent years, which included a steeper slope of the grandstands, helpful when the stands are full. I’m enjoying the new board containing smaller, angled internal screens providing a better view of the ice. To celebrate the team’s history, a display of players’ accomplishments spans around the top level of seating.

With nothing better to do, I came to the arena early—too early, considering some of the staff aren’t here yet—to watch their pregame practice. I’m not sure I’m allowed to be here, but since no one has kicked me out, I’m staying.

Nero handed me a brand-new notebook and instructed me to “take notes.” That was all. No specifics of what he wants information on, so I’ve been making lists—things I need to buy, places I want to travel, possible career opportunities, recipes I want to try, the opposing players’ last names, and other random topics that popped into my head. Some lists have multiple items, while others have one or two. There’s no rhyme or reason to any of the info. The only criteria was a thought that popped into my head. He’s either going to laugh at the absurdity or wonder why it’s unrelated to hockey.

My breath catches as he skates out with his team, his stick hovering an inch above the ice. The team’s dressed in warm-up gear as they get their bearings on the unfamiliar ice, making large circles around the entire playing area since they have it to themselves.

With intention, I study Nero’s athleticism.

The way his feet glide quickly over the smooth surface.

The way he hops over and around other players.

The way he taps the goal as he zooms by.

Wherever he goes, my gaze follows, and after a few minutes, I realize I’m stupidly grinning. He’s not even playing the game, but his love of the sport exudes from him. It’s been this way since I met him. Unless his team is having a terrible game or he winds up in the penalty box too much, his attitude is favorable. I love watching him in his element, his focus on the game, his ability to get the puck into the opponent’s net, and also stop the opponents from scoring.

I’ve been a fan of the sport for as long as I can remember, even before Walsh started playing. Mom got me into skating when I was younger, and she’d often let me stay for the hockey practices, until Juliet got bored or Walsh needed to be fed and we’d have to leave. It’s been too many years to remember what initially drew me to the sport, but if I had to guess, it was the fast pace, the way people were always coming and going, even at the younger levels. There’s not a lot of downtime in hockey, and that was the fun of it for me.

Still is.

The constant motion soothes me in a way I can’t explain, especially since my life is sometimes the opposite. I crave the quiet, a slower pace of life, lazy days with nothing on my agenda. But in the stands at a hockey game? Bring on the commotion.

A banging on the glass draws me from my thoughts. When I peer down, Nero’s crazy eyes and wide grin stare back at me. “Ships. Did you see that shot?”

“Nope, missed it. Maybe do it again?”

I predict his frown before his lips turn down, and it makes me chuckle. Our easy rapport and banter are among my favorite things we share.

“You’re gonna watch this time?”

I hold up the notebook. “I’m busy. Taking notes as you requested.”

“You’re supposed to be taking notes on my performance. Duh.”

Oops.

“On it.”

A teammate taps his shoulder, stealing his attention. He discusses something with him—Underwood, maybe—and glances at me. “Can’t wait for your report tonight.” He taps the glass one last time and mouths, “Love you,” before skating back to join his team.