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Lucy doesn’t leave the glass for the entire warm-up. I stay beside her, while she tracks every movement Lenzin makes. She’s learning the rhythm of his skating, how he circles back to pass to Aleks, and the exact moment he’ll glance up to find her again.

“I have to admit; I do love being here too,” Hildy says, resting her hand on her pregnant belly.

"These games bring out something in all of us," I say, watching my best friend since childhood, and his best friend since college, warm up.

"It sure does." She nods to my shirt.

Something about being at a rink feels electric. Even in this VIP box, you can still feel the cold roll off the ice in waves, hear the scrape of blades and the snap of pucks against sticks.

I’ve been around this game for what feels like my entire life. I know what a clean pass looks like, what it means when a player adjusts his stance during warm-ups, when someone’s testing an injury, and when they’re ready to battle. Tonight, both Lenzin and Aleks look like they’re expecting a hard win.

Lucy leans against the glass, breath fogging up the view. "Who are they playing again?"

She already knows, but of course I answer anyway. "Chicago."

"Are they good?" she asks.

"Very." I smile.

She frowns. "Better than us?"

"No one is better than us." I wink. But Chicago is damn close.

Sofie is settling into her seat. Nalani has a plate of finger food on her belly and her phone in one hand. Claudia is talking quietly with Noelle, while Paul has Savannah perched on one knee.

This little family: players and wives, Paul as the grandfather figure, Savannah and Lucy as the children, and two very pregnant women who will add to this close-knit group. I’m so glad Lenzin found a woman who matches his intelligence, and that Aleks found a woman who won’t put up with his shit and instead puts him in his place.

I’m even happier that I actually like them. To them, I’m not Anna Winterfield, daughter of one of Germany’s oldest private banking families. I’m not the Winterfield daughter, raised knowing that our name opens doors before anyone ever reaches for the handle. I’m not the woman people look at across a dinner table while silently calculating who I should marry, what his family owns, what mine controls, and what the two names could accomplish together.

I’ve spent my entire life being seen as an asset before I was seen as a person.

At school, I was never one of the girls. I was the girl everyone tiptoed around, then talked about behind my back. I was invited because of my name, watched because of my name, and judged by standards nobody ever bothered to explain because everyone assumed I’d been raised knowing them.

And then there was Lenzin.

For years, everyone treated our friendship like a contract neither of us had signed. The Winterfields and the Faulkers. Two families with money, influence, history. Two names that looked impressive side by side on paper. Everyone saw a perfect match, and nobody seemed particularly interested in whether we wanted to be one.

Here, none of that matters. Here I’m Aunt Anna. I’m one of the girls. And it still feels strange enough that sometimes I catch myself smiling before I realize I’m doing it, probably looking a bit unhinged.

But it’s truly bliss. Nobody looks at me and wonders what my family name could do for theirs. Nobody measures me against some imaginary husband or wonders whether I’m making the right impression. Nobody cares that I’m a Winterfield. God, I like being just Anna.

The puck drops, and Lucy lasts approximately four seconds before she starts narrating.

“They’re going that way.”

“Yes.” I agree.

“Now they’re going the other way.”

“Brilliant choice.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s where the puck is.” I giggle.

She nods thoughtfully, as if I’d just explained a complicated scientific principle. Then she turns back to the ice, and I settle into my seat.

Brooklyn comes out hard, as I knew they would.