Page 63 of Oh, Puck!
“He looks so serious down there,” Rose observes, sipping her drink.
Serious is one word for it. Possessive is another. The memory of him whisperingmineagainst my skin, those rough hands all over me in my office.
Fuck.That was stupid. Stupid, and possibly the hottest fucking thing I've ever done in my life.
His eyes are locked on the play unfolding in front of him, but for just a second, his gaze flicks up toward the VIP box.
Towardme.
My cheeks flame, and Darcy glances at me, one eyebrow raised. She doesn’t say a word.
It's still tied. Zero-zero. Twelve minutes of the tightest, most beautiful hockey I've watched in years.
The first period wizzes by, and deep into the second, down on the ice, Mason steals the puck off a defenseman with a check so clean the crowd loses its mind. He dishes it to Beck on a perfect tape-to-tape pass.
"OOHHH!" the whole box screams.
Beck rips a shot at the net, but the goalie kicks it out. The arenagroansin unison, a few thousand people deflating at once.
"So close." Rose presses both hands to her face. "I think I'm gonna throw up. Is that normal?"
"Welcome to my entire childhood," I laugh.
"I love it. I hate it. I love it. Christ, I starting to sound like my dad." She grabs another fry, and casts an eye down to where Coach Pearson is pacing at the players box. "Margot is a genius, by the way. These are emotional support fries."
She's right.
Margot, our Michelin-trained team chef, apparently doesn't believe in doing things halfway. Especially not for the VIP Guests.
There's a heaping tray of loaded fries in the middle of us, crispy golden potatoes drowning in molten cheddar, smoky pulled pork, jalapeños, and a drizzle of a tangy sauce I can't stop eating. Next to it, Darcy ordered a charcuterie board that's the size of atire. It's loaded with sliders, mini tacos and a bowl of those little chocolate-dipped strawberries that I keep telling myself I'll stop eating.
"This," I say around a mouthful, "is the best night of my life and I'm not being dramatic."
I grab another fry, the cheese stretching in a long, glorious string, and shovel it in my mouth as the crowd roars beneath us.
"You're being a little dramatic," Darcy says.
"I'm beingappropriatelyenthusiastic." I wash the fry down with a sip of my cocktail—something pink and fizzy and dangerous that Darcy called a'Beachside Breeze.'"Look at this place.Look at it."
All three of us turn to take it in, this sea of blue and gold stretching from the glass to the rafters. There are foam fingers and painted faces, even a fucking kid two sections who's over wearing a full-length bear costume.
My heart does that thing again. That swelling, aching thing.
Because I did this.
Idid this.
"You okay?" Rose nudges my arm, her warm brown eyes soft.
"Yeah." I blink fast. "Yeah, I'm just—" I gesture helplessly at the whole arena. "This is what I love, you know? My dad used to say hockey was the only sport that felt like a war and a dance at the same time."
Darcy's expression gentles. "Your dad sounds like he was a poet."
"He was a sheet metal worker who cried during the national anthem." I laugh, and it cracks a little. "Every game.Every game.He'd point out plays before they happened.'Watch thewinger, Jojo. He's gonna cut to the slot.'"I smile, because I can almost hear his voice when I say it. "And you know what, he was always right.Always."
"Well now you're up in a luxury box drinking pink cocktails and running the whole show," Rose says, beaming. "He'd be so proud, Josie."
I smile as the puck pings off the crossbar below. The entire arena gasps as one before exhaling into a groan. Sawyer, in net, freezes the puck, and the ref blows the whistle.
