There was no way in hell I was telling him via text that my resistance had anything to do with trying to protect my heart. The closer I let us get, the more it was going to hurt when he eventually realized he couldn’t fix me or change how my past would always affect my future. Going to his games and getting a glimpse of what a normal life by his side looked like might be too much for me to handle.
So, I settled on a white lie instead.
I feel kinda out of place with your friends. They seem to have this history, a closeness, and it’s awkward that they’re forced to socialize with me because I’m with you.
My conscience could rest easy because that wasn’t a lie at all. Those women had been nothing but nice to me, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was an outsider. And to this point, I’d only interacted with them one-on-one. Pretty sure when I got a concentrated dose of them as a group, it would be overwhelming.
Sasha:That’s an easy fix. The WAGs—wives and girlfriends—tend to watch from an appointed family box. I’d rather have you closer to me anyway. How does first row, right behind the glass sound?
I blew out a breath. This freaking guy.
He’d proven time and time again that he could smooth-talk me into just about anything he wanted. I was willing to bet that if he asked me to jump off a bridge, it wouldn’t take much coaxing for me to agree, which made it all the more impressive that I’d managed to turn down his proposal.
Sasha:The choice is yours, baby. But I’d really love to have you there.
Ticket Services:Your ticket is ready! Click the link to download it to your phone.
The jersey lying on my bed taunted me, demanding action.
Sacrificing a few hours to attend a game was nothing compared to all he’d done for me over the past few months.
Fuck it.
I would go, but I decided I would do so undercover. No way was I walking in wearing a bright red symbol marking me as his.
The attendant led me to my seat when the pre-game lights show and hype video concluded. The arena had been dark as I’d watched on from the concrete stairwell, so when the main lights came back on, I was shocked to discover a sea of bodies before me with hardly an empty seat in the house.
Once we reached the bottom of the aisle, the kind gentleman in a red polo shirt with a racecar logo stitched on his breast pocket gestured down the row of seats mere inches from scuffed-up, seemingly flimsy plexiglass.
“You’re right in the middle, miss. Seat number seven.”
Both teams had just skated onto the ice surface from the tunnels beneath the arena, and the crowd erupted in deafening cheers so loud that I winced, my elbows twitching as I fought the urge to cover my ears.
Turning to the man beside me, my “thank you” was lost in the noise.
He smiled before leaning in, cupping a hand beside his mouth, and shouting, “Enjoy the game!”
Taking a deep breath, I squeezed through the tight space made for me to move down the row past the six people sitting between the aisle and my seat.
The players whizzed by the glass so fast I gasped. The energy tonight was far different from the last time I was here. Then, it had been playful, relaxed even. Now, there was an intensity hanging thick in the air, and determination was etched on every face that passed by in a blur.
Never in my life had I watched a hockey game, but I understood the basic premise. Obviously, they played on ice, using sticks to push the puck around, with the ultimate goal of shooting it into the net to score.
The music tapered off, and an announcer’s voice boomed through the speakers. “For tonight’s matchup, we have your hometown Indy Speed facing off against the Seattle Sailors!”
There was a pause as the crowd went wild.
“And now, for your starting lineup! In net, number thirty, Sasha Gusev.”
“Gooooooooooooooooooose!” Every voice in the arena bellowed in unison as the man himself skated toward the net on the opposite side of the glass from where I stood, only a few feet away.
Holy shit. What was that?
“At right defense, number eight, Wyatt Banks. At left defense, number fifty-nine, Logan Ford. At center, number eleven, Braxton Slate. At left wing, number ninety-two, Asher Lawson. And at right wing, your captain, number seventy-five, Jenner Kniiiiiiiiiiiiight!”
There was a raucous cheer as the cheeky redheaded man skated to join the rest of the starting lineup on the blue line painted on the ice closest to the net Sasha stood before.
The lights were dimmed once again, and a spotlight focused on the red carpet rolled out from a door along the curved glassin the corner of the rink. A gentleman stepped out after being announced as the anthem singer, waving to those in attendance and waiting for them to quiet so he could begin.
