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nova

W hat am I doing at his game?

I haven’t been to the arena in months—mostly because Austin has been postpartum and does most of her fangirling from the comfort of their home—and the last thing I want is to sit in these seats alone.

Enter: Poppy. She flew in for a visit after I told her about Mavis’ exorcism cause some things are better spoken about in person.

We’re seated in the front row at the boards, our knees pressed to the plexiglass, close enough that I could touch the ice if this partition wasn’t here. The crowd hums around us, a low roar of anticipation and cheap nacho cheese. The guy next to me is loudly explaining icing to his date, and I want to lean over and say, She doesn’t care, dude. No one cares!

Ugh.

Annoying…

My eyes seek out Luca—number twelve!—following his movements openly. What’s the point in hiding it? He’s out there being fast and focused and unfairly hot, his jersey clinging to his shoulders like it was made just for him.

Which, I guess, it was .

He skates backward, head on a swivel, and I wait for him, wanting to see the exact second he notices me.

And wait…

And wait.

My brother notices first, lifting his stick from his place in the goal box, oblivious to the fact I am not here to watch him, specifically.

I give him a lazy wave.

The puck drops and the Baddies explode into motion, charging down the ice with a lethal combination of power and grace that makes it impossible to look away. I don’t bother to pretend I’m not homing in on Luca and the way his helmet frames his stupidly handsome face.

He hasn’t noticed me yet.

Why would he? I did not tell him I would be here…

I watch him in a way I never have before; this is different. More meaningful—he has been in my home, my bed, my body. I’m learning more about him and haven’t been able to stop thinking about him since he sat in my kitchen eating that lemon chicken.

Luca is beautiful like this.

He slashes past a defender, feints right, then flicks a pass across to the goalie who catches it in his glove before it hits the net. Baddie fans boo. My brother throws both fists in the air, grinning like the teenage kid who spent all his free time on the ice.

I clap with the crowd.

Cheer.

My eyes, however, are glued to Luca.

The play crashes toward our end of the rink, fast and chaotic, and then?—

Boom.

Luca gets leveled .

The hit slams him straight into the glass, right in front of me . The boards rattle under our knees. I gasp, heart in my throat, hand flying to my chest. His body is pressed up against the plexiglass, face twisted in pure instinct and adrenaline. He blinks hard, breath fogging the inside of his helmet.

And then he sees me.

His eyes go wide. Like actually wide.

For a split second, he just stares —completely frozen—like the sight of me knocked the air out of him harder than the hit did. There's shock written all over his face, like I’m the last person he expected to see this close, in this crowd, in his world.

Then the moment cracks.

His brows tug together, confusion melting into something else—something sharp and burning and real.

The guy who hit him peels off. Luca doesn’t follow. He’s still looking at me like I just changed the score of the game without touching the puck.

Poppy leans in and whispers, “Oh shit—he was not expecting to see you.”

No, he wasn’t.

“The look on his face was all, ‘oh my gawd , my secret girlfriend came to watch me.’”

“Don’t call me that,” I whisper.

She raises her brows. “Don’t call you what? His secret girlfriend?”

Yes. “It sounds so…” Horrible. “Morally gray. And slightly pathetic.”

She snorts. “Please. You’re not pathetic. You’re thriving. Secret romance? Forbidden tension? Yes please!”

Poppy leans in closer. “Okay, be honest—you were totally hoping he would accidentally see you.”

I pause.

Nod.

“Fine. I was.”

Poppy beams like she just won a bet with herself. “I knew it.”

“You are so irritating,” I say, cheeks warming .

She shrugs, thrusting the pretzel and cheese in my direction. “I’m just proud of you.

Down on the ice, Luca is still clearly struggling to focus. He misses another pass. Fumbles his stick. Skates into his own teammate during a line change. The coach yells something unintelligible and Luca waves a hand like yeah yeah, I know , but his eyes keep flicking toward the boards.

Toward me.

Poppy munches on pretzel. “You broke his brain.”

The feeling is mutual.

He lifts his face mask and his gaze scans the crowd. I don’t bother pretending I’m not staring as my eyes meet his eyes through the glass, pulse thrumming in my throat like a war drum.

There it is.

That look.

I see you.

My bestie lets out a low whistle. “Honestly? If he looks at you like that any harder, he’s gonna melt through the ice.”

I press my thighs together and pretend to care about the scoreboard.

Luca’s lips twitch into a ghost of a smirk—for a second—before he yanks his helmet down a little lower and turns his attention back toward the ice.

There’s a whistle from the ref, and the players begin coasting toward their respective benches for a time-out. I sit back in my seat, just about to make a sarcastic comment about how badly the Baddies need to get their crap together?—

When my brother turns on his skates and heads straight for the boards.

Straight for me.

“Oh no,” I hiss.

Poppy’s eyes widen. “Abort. ABORT.”

“I can’t go anywhere! We’re seated !”

Gio skates over, casual as anything, tapping the end of his stick against the glass like it’s no big deal. I sit up straighter, tucking the hoodie tighter around me and praying to every hockey god in existence that he doesn’t recognize it.

“NOVA!” he shouts through the glass, helmet askew, cheeks flushed. “Hey!”

I smile like a totally normal sister who is definitely not hooking up with one of his teammates behind his back. “Hey! Good game!”

Gio’s eyes flick over me like he’s noticing something. My face? My expression? The hoodie?

Please not the hoodie.

He tilts his head. “That mine?”

I freeze. “What?”

He gestures with his stick. “The sweatshirt. That mine?”

It’s not.

I didn’t have the heart to show up to a game wearing anyone but Luca’s number except if I turn around and let my brother see…

Game. Over.

So I lie.

“Yeah,” I say quickly, nodding once, firm. “Yup. Yours.”

And then he’s gone, gliding back to the goal like he didn’t nearly blow up my entire life with one simple question.

I let out a strangled sound halfway between a laugh and a sob.

Poppy calmly pops another piece of pretzel in her mouth. “Best performance of your life.”

“Do you think he believed me?”

“Hell no. I was lying when I said that was the best performance of your life.”

I glare at her. “You are the worst emotional support I’ve ever had.”

She shrugs, unbothered. “I support you by keeping you humble.”

“I’m going to puke. ”

“Shh…” She holds her soda toward me. “Sip. Don’t hurl.”

I take a sip of her soda like it might dissolve the panic fizzing in my bloodstream.

It doesn’t.

Poppy watches me for a moment, chewing slowly, her gaze a little more serious now beneath the usual chaos. “Um… what’s the actual plan here?”

I blink at her. “What?”

“With Luca,” she says, wiping her fingers on a napkin. “What’s the plan? Because you’re clearly not done with him, and I just need to know if we’re pretending this is still casual, or if we’re in full-blown Romeo and Juliet with hockey sticks territory.”

I open my mouth. Then close it. “I—I don’t know.”

“Nova.”

“I don’t ,” I insist, dropping my head back against the seat. “It wasn’t supposed to get this far. We were just… flirting. And kissing. Er, maybe doing other things. It wasn’t serious.”

Poppy gives me a knowing look. “And now?”

I sigh. “Now I think about him constantly. Like, stupid stuff. What he’s doing. If he ate lunch. If his shoulder’s still sore from the last game.”

Poppy’s expression softens. “Of course you are. You’re a disaster.”

“Gee, thanks.” I groan, dropping my face into my hands again. “This can’t keep happening.”

“It is happening,” she says gently. “So, what are you gonna do about it?”

I peek at her through my fingers. “You’re really asking for a plan right now? While I’m sweating through my bra and trying not to get outed in a public sports arena?”

“Duh.”

“Your brother’s a walking overprotective warning label. The whole ‘locker room loyalty’ thing is real. But Nova…” She leans in. “You light up when you talk about him. And if that doesn’t count for something, I don’t know what does. ”

I blink hard.

“Don’t you dare cry in public,” Poppy warns, nudging me with her elbow. “You’ll mess up your hot girl makeup.”

I sniff. “I’m not crying.”

“You’re misting.” She shoves the pretzel at me. “Take a bite.”

I bite off a chunk with my teeth and chew. “Whatever.”

We sit in silence for a beat, the game carrying on down on the ice, players skating and shouting and slamming into the boards, both my brother and Luca oblivious to my turmoil.

Finally, I say, “I have to figure this shit out.”

Poppy nods. “Good.”

“I want to see him tonight,” I mutter, not sure she can hear me above the roar of the crowd. “ After .”

I wonder if his post-game ritual is the same as my brother’s: hot tub, cold plunge, shower, pajamas, junk food.

In that order, depending on his mood, if they win or lose.

She does. “Of course you do.”

My sigh is loud enough, too. “I also don’t want to sneak around forever.”

“Then don’t,” she says it simply—as if it were simple.

I raise an eyebrow. “Okay brainiac, what do I do? Casually drop it into conversation? ‘ Hey Gio, pass the ketchup—by the way I’ve been sneaking around with your teammate, please don’t commit homicide’ ?”

“I mean, that would work.” She points at me with the remaining pretzel nub. “You’re the one dating a hockey player. That life is gonna come with some ups and downs. If you’re lucky, this is the most drama you’ll have.”

I laugh.

Poppy smiles sweetly.

Then I watch as she shoves the pretzel into the last of the cheese dip, stuffs it in her mouth and says, “If you do decide to tell Gio, I want to be there front and center to see his reaction.”

Brat. “You won’t be, but thanks.”

“I can take the heat off. ”

“There won’t be any heat.”

Lies we tell ourselves…

“This whole thing gives me anxiety,” I grumble, sinking further into the hoodie with Luca’s number on it, which now feels less like a comfort item and more like a giant neon arrow.

Or sign.

“Part of this is your brother’s fault for giving you rules—he should know better than that. You’re hot, you’re single, he’s on a team with eligible bachelors.” She snorts. “He’s cockblocking, that’s what he’s doing and it’s rude. RUDE I SAY!”

She’s not wrong but that doesn’t negate the fact that he made his teammates off-limits.

“I swear to God, Poppy?—”

My words are cut off when the crowd suddenly surge to their feet, with deafening shouts.

My head snaps up in time to see Luca breaking away with the puck moving down the ice, fast and dangerous, two defenders from the opposing team closing in on him. He moves faster cutting hard toward their net.

“Damn. Dude is flying,” Poppy says under her breath.

Luca spins, feints left, then slams on the brakes. One of the defenders passes him, crashing into the boards. The other tries to check him but Luca slips free, all muscle and precision.

He shoots.

Scores.

The Baddies bench erupts.

Luca doesn’t celebrate.

He skates toward center ice, head down, jaw tight. Like this goal didn’t scratch the surface of the adrenaline pumping through his system.

More.

He wants more …

I shiver, eyes locked on him.

Poppy exhales beside me. “Holy. Shit.”

My heart pounds. Palms sweaty. Knees weak .

“ Yeahhh. ”

“He’s amazing,” Poppy says, fanning herself with her empty cup. “With a Capital-H for hot and a Capital-T for trouble .”

I’m still staring at him like I’ve forgotten how to blink. “He didn’t even smile.”

“He doesn’t need to smile. His face does enough damage.”

I can’t stop thinking about that look he had; serious. Determined. I’ve watched him play before—obviously I have, all those times I’ve come to watch Gio—but I’ve never paid attention to the expressions on his face when he played.

Never cared.

Well.

I’m noticing now.

The way his jaw tightens when he passes the puck. The quickness of his eyes, always scanning, calculating. How every part of him is focused and furious and frighteningly beautiful. There’s a stillness in his expression even when he’s moving like lightning—like his body is chaos and his mind is ice.

Such a turn on…

Poppy exhales again. “I’ve never been so jealous of a puck in my life.”

I wrap my arms around myself, wrapping myself up in his hoodie.

He doesn’t score again but he plays like he’s trying to . Like he’s still chasing something more than just the win. When the final horn blares, Luca doesn’t celebrate then either. He skates off with his head low, shoulders taut, energy probably still buzzing in his chest that sixty minutes of full-throttle hockey couldn’t burn through.

“Phew!” Poppy whistles. “Get ready. He’s definitely going to text you.”

He does—but not until I’m pulling open the door to my Uber.

Luca: Where are you?

Me: Getting into a car…

Luca: Wanna meet me at my place?

My heart soars.

Do I want to meet at his place?

Me: Yes.

Luca: Great. Sending you my address…