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I stop myself before hitting send and stare at the words. Too casual? Too much? I delete them. Maybe I should say, “That was a hell of a dinner.” No. I settle on something simple, something that doesn't demand an answer but leaves the door cracked open just enough for her to slip through.

Me

I had a great time tonight.

I hit send before my brain can catch up with my thumb. I toss the phone onto the bed and walk to the window, staring out at the Space Needle piercing the clouds. My heart is doing that erratic double-thud again, the one it only does when I’m about to take a hit or when she’s in the room. I expect to wait. I expect the silence to stretch into the morning.

My phone buzzes, and I dive for it, nearly tripping over the edge of the rug. It’s her. My lungs feel like they’ve been packed with dry ice.

Rory

Me too. We forgot to set up our next date. When are you free?

I sit on the edge of the bed, a smile tugging at my mouth for the first time all night. She’s ready for another date. I fist-bump the air before I’m able to stop myself. Then I turn back to my phone.

Me

Are you available to attend a Knights game on Tuesday night? We can grab dinner after the game.

Rory

That works for me.

Me

I’ll arrange for you to sit in the family section. I’ll send over the ticket tomorrow.

Rory

Sounds great. Goodnight.

I set the phone down, but I don't move. I lie back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling. The conversation was short, but I feel more connected to her than I have to anyone in years. It’s terrifying. I’m a man who lives by stats and schedules, by the predictable physics of a puck on ice. Rory Fox is a variable I didn't account for, a storm surge that’s washed away my foundations.

I try to sleep. I really do. I close my eyes and try to focus on my breathing, on the familiar rhythm of my own heart. But every time I drift, I remember the feel of her soft, curvy body pressed against mine. I can picture the catch in her breath when I told her I wasn't pretending.

I roll onto my side, the sheets cool against my skin, counting down the hours until I see her again.

CHAPTER SIX

RORY

I slip on the jersey Ryan sent over to my apartment. The heavy fabric is thick and slightly abrasive against my skin and smells faintly like Ryan. It’s far too big, the hem hitting mid-thigh and the sleeves swallowing my hands until I roll them up. On the back, the number thirty-four stands out in bold, sharp white against the deep navy of the Seattle Knights colors.

“I’m so jealous,” Mia says, leaning against the door frame of our shared bathroom. She’s nursing a cup of tea, her eyes tracking the way I tug at the neckline of the jersey. “I’d kill to sit in the family suite.”

“I wish you could come with me,” I say, though the words feel hollow even to me. I reach for my deep red lipstick.

“Maybe some other time. Tonight, I have a date with Love Island.” She laughs as I grab my purse.

“Reality TV is going to rot your mind,” I say in a perfect imitation of my mother’s voice.

“Says the girl who watches it every day.” She laughs and rolls her eyes.

“Touché.” I give her a little wave and walk out the door.

My Uber’s waiting at the curb, and I hop into the back seat. The entire ride is a blur of buzzing nerves.

The Knights’ arena is a cathedral of glass and steel, vibrating with a low-frequency energy that I feel in my teeth before I even step inside. I’m ushered through a private entrance, my pass dangling from a lanyard that feels like a heavy weight around my neck. The VIP elevator is quiet, the carpet plush enough to muffle the sound of my boots, creating a vacuum of silence before the storm of the family lounge.