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Larkin's name stretches across my back.

Wyatt gave it to me two months ago. First, he insisted I try it on. Then he insisted I take it off.

Men are such fickle creatures.

We were late to dinner that night.

Very late.

On the ice, the puck drops.

Wyatt takes off along the boards, catches a pass from Cole, and slips past the first defenseman.

I lean forward.

“Come on, baby.”

He cuts toward the net, drawing the second defender with him.

For one glorious second, I think he's going to shoot.

Instead, he sends the puck across the crease.

Easton is waiting.

The puck hits the back of the net.

The arena explodes.

I'm on my feet before the goal horn finishes blaring, screaming along with thousands of other people as Easton throws his arms up and Wyatt crashes into him.

Nadia grabs my shoulders.

“THAT'S YOUR BOY!”

“I KNOW!”

Wyatt skates past the glass with his teammates, grinning like an absolute idiot.

And then he looks up. Straight at me.

He taps his stick against the ice and blows me a kiss.

The woman sitting in front of us turns around with a delighted smile. “Oh, that's adorable!”

My cheeks heat.

I wave at Wyatt and he winks before skating back toward center ice.

LA Ice wins four to two.

Wyatt finishes with two assists, several excellent plays, and one minor penalty for roughing that he insists was a misunderstanding.

Considering I watched him shove the opposing defenseman into the boards, I'm not entirely convinced.

After the game, Nadia heads home while I make my way downstairs toward the family lounge.

Three months ago, I would've been checking the hallway for cameras, reporters, and anyone who might recognize me.