Page 19 of Checking Mr. Wrong (Love in Maple Falls #3)

ASHER

The arena buzzes like it’s alive, a living, breathing organism—and in a lot of ways, it is.

We hear people arriving, the hum of the crowd low at first but building as more fans fill the seats, until it grows into a roar.

The intensity is so fierce it vibrates through my chest, even down here in the locker room, deep in the belly of the place.

This is it. Our first game. The Ice Breakers’ inaugural puck-drop as an NHL team.

The air carries the scent of popcorn, spilled beer, and fresh ice making for a strange mix of top notes which assault my senses, but it works.

From the tunnel I see nothing but a sea of Ice Breakers swag, and it’s everywhere.

Fans are decked out in jerseys and waving homemade signs, all showing us they’re here to be a part of something, too.

They’re believers. They’ve waited for this, for us—and now it’s here.

The cacophony of sound slams us through the concrete walls.

Lucian and Weston shift beside me, tapping sticks on the ground while Clément and Jamie busy themselves by bouncing on their skates, the nervous energy in the air almost as palpable as the crowd’s.

Carson stretches, arms over head and jaw tight, while Cade grins and lets out a sharp whoop, slapping the boards with his glove like he’s trying to wake the whole team up.

The lights in the arena dim, and the music kicks in—“Ice Ice Baby” bringing Vanilla Ice back into relevance yet again.

Seriously, you gotta appreciate a guy with nine lives who’s made his nineties turn of fame work for him this long in some capacity.

I’m trying to recall another song he did that’s as popular when the announcer’s voice booms over the speakers, drawing out our name like it’s the most important thing he’s ever said. And then, it’s time.

We burst out of the tunnel, skates carving into the ice as we hit the rink in a rush of movement and noise. The crowd explodes, their cheers so loud it’s like standing in the middle of a storm. Spotlights sweep over us, catching the flashes of cameras and the wild, waving arms of the fans.

I glance up at the owner’s box as we circle for warm-up.

Troy Hart, the team’s owner and a former hockey player himself, is leaning against the glass, his sharp suit as crisp as his expression.

There’s pride there, quiet but unmistakable, and maybe a little pressure, too.

He’s put his money, his name, and his reputation on the line for this team, and he’s expecting results.

I take a breath, letting it all soak in. This is why we play. For this moment, for this energy. For this chance to be part of something bigger.

But, before I even think about stepping on the ice for the actual game, there are things I need to do. Since as far back as I can remember, I have had to do the ritual. Calling it a ritual feels a lot gentler than calling it what it is: an OCD tick.

First, I come off the ice after warming up and I stretch, left side, then right.

Never a different order. Then, three perfect loops on my left skate lace, no more, no less.

Then two on the right, because apparently, my brain needs it.

Finally, I yank the tongue of my skate like I’m sealing a secret envelope.

If I mess this up, I swear the puck’s gonna sneak off and start its own rebellion.

All right. Ritual complete. I push off the boards and scan the crowd, hoping to see one certain face up there peering back at me, and she can even scowl if she wants. All I care about right now is finding Mabel.

I’m weaving with the guys, soaking in the chaos, but my eyes keep darting to the stands.

Where is she? I know where she’s not been, like at the inaugural bash the other night, which was weird.

Okay maybe less weird and more disappointing.

Instead, I caught her on Instagram, elbow-deep in cupcake batter with Neesha.

Cupcakes. Seriously? Here I was, suiting up, hoping to make another impression on her that night, and she’s off perfecting frosting techniques.

I’m still looking when…jackpot. There she is.

I spot her sitting with Fiona and Willa, laughing until she freezes.

It’s as if she knows I’m watching her as her head slowly turns and our eyes meet.

She’s smirking like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me.

I can’t resist. I glide over, point at her like I’m claiming territory, and wave so hard I’m basically signaling for air traffic control.

And because subtlety isn’t my strong suit, and these days I’m also fueled by my TikTok stardom, I throw in a little skating dance—picture a pirouette that’s one part graceful, two parts “look at me, I’m adorable.

” The crowd eats it up, cheering like I just scored the winning goal in the Stanley Cup finals.

Let’s be honest, though—it’s not about them.

This is all for her. She’s starting to feel less like a person and more like a piece of candy I can’t stop craving.

The kind with a glossy, sugar-coated shell that promises a challenge before you break through to the gooey, melt-in-your-mouth center.

The sweet reward waiting at the heart of it all.

And me? I’m a sucker for sugar. And a challenge.

Mabel’s doing her best to play it cool, which is impressive considering her poker face is about as convincing as a kid with crumbs on their face claiming they didn’t eat the cookies. Spoiler alert: Fiona and Willa aren’t buying it.

I see them elbowing her in the ribs, not even trying to be subtle about it, giggling like school kids who just saw the star quarterback trip over his own feet while pulling off a “smooth” move.

Mabel’s eyes flicker in my direction for half a second before she snaps them away, like I’m Medusa and she’s determined not to turn to stone.

It’s almost cute. Almost. If my own stomach wasn’t doing somersaults and my brain wasn’t screaming Why does she have to look so gorgeous?

I hate doing it, but I pull my focus away. I’ve seen she’s here, but I’ve got a job to do now. As fun as it would be to show off for her for the next hour, I’ve got a team who’s counting on me.

And just like that, the game is on.

The puck drops, and suddenly it’s like every ounce of noise in this arena funnels through my skates.

The ice is a blur, my teammates buzzing like electric eels around me.

I’m moving fast, but slow enough to soak in the crunch of blades, the slap of sticks, the wild roar of the crowd that makes my chest feel like it’s gonna burst.

I’m focused, but not so focused I can’t steal a glance up at Mabel again. She’s there, eyes locked on the ice, probably trying to act cool, but even from here I can tell she’s biting her lip.

The puck finds its way to me, sliding across the ice like it’s got a mind of its own.

I take control, weaving past defenders like I’m dancing through traffic, except with way more bruises involved.

The crowd’s noise cranks up, it’s like they can feel something big about to happen, like the entire arena is holding its breath.

Then, right in front of the net, time slows. I see the goalie, eyes narrowing like he’s ready to swallow the puck whole. But I’ve got a secret move: a slick fake to the left, a snap shot to the right, and the puck sails past his glove with a satisfying thwack against the back of the net.

Boom. Goal.

The place erupts like I just set off fireworks on ice.

Fans are jumping, screaming, waving flags—probably some poor kid’s hat flying through the air.

I skate wide, arms raised like a rock star soaking in the spotlight, heart pounding like a drum solo.

First goal scored for the newly minted Ice Breakers has been made by me… and it feels good.

And yeah, somewhere in that madness, I catch Mabel’s eye. She’s grinning now, no pretending. That’s what I’ve been waiting for. I may be the guy on the ice, but she’s the only goal I care about making.

The roar hasn’t even started to fade when I carve my way back across the ice, aiming straight for Mabel like a kid desperate to show off a new trick.

I hit the boards near her, dropping into a quick, smooth bow.

Then I point at her, grinning wide enough to split my helmet in half.

She tries to play it cool again, but I catch that flash of “okay, you’re ridiculous” in her eyes.

No time to bask and not the time to keep showing off either; I push off and dive right back into the game.

The other team’s forwards are swarming, trying to bury one past our goalie.

So it’s up to me to step up, planting myself between the puck and the crease like a human fortress.

They’re pushing hard, sticks and bodies slamming into me, trying to carve out an opening.

But our goalie? Man, Frenchie’s a wall. I give him a mental fist bump every time he makes a ridiculous save because this guy’s making my job easier.

The puck breaks free from the chaos, and suddenly I’m back on the move.

Dodging, weaving, trading shoves with defenders like we’re all auditioning for a cage fight on ice.

The game’s a frenzy, each second packed with enough adrenaline to fuel a rocket.

The crowd’s screams echo through the rink, but out here, it’s a battle—me, the puck, and whoever’s dumb enough to get in my way.

The ice gleams under the arena lights as we skate back out after intermission, muscles tight and minds sharp.

The scoreboard’s staring us down at 2–0, but the way the game’s gone, you can feel the tension simmering like a volcano ready to blow.

Everyone’s jacked. The fans are screaming like it’s the last period of the Stanley Cup finals.

We’re locked in, skating hard, sticks slashing, bodies slamming, and then Cade gets the puck. He’s got that look, the one that says he’s about to do something unforgettable, and I know him well enough by now that he will. He weaves past defenders like they’re standing still, eyes on the prize.

The clock’s winding down, and the crowd’s holding their breath. Cade lines up the shot, wind-up smooth as silk, and—boom! The puck rockets off his stick, slicing through the air like a missile.

Net bulges. Goal.

The place explodes. The puck slams into the net, and the arena erupts like a fireworks show on New Year’s Eve. I throw my hands up, yelling with the crowd, the adrenaline shooting through me like lightning.

3–0, Ice Breakers.

Clément was a brick wall tonight—zero pucks past him. Not a single one. The crowd’s loving it, and from somewhere in the stands, a woman’s voice rings out clear and loud: “ Je t’aime, Frenchie! ”

I can’t help but grin. I get Clément’s attention from across the rink and pump a fist in the air, and he does the same, mimicking my movement. That guy has to be officially the player of the game.

I glance up just in time to catch Mabel as she leaps to her feet, cheering and jumping like she just won the lottery. She points right at me, that cheeky spark in her eyes as if she’s daring me to show off again…

I spin into a full circle on the ice, arms wide, grinning like a goofball who just nailed the spotlight. The fans love it. I love it. And I’m thinking, in her cranky not-so-secret way, Mabel must love it, too. Maybe just a little.

I drop back into formation with the guys, the energy crackling between us like a live wire. We’re newly minted teammates, becoming friends, but most of all, at the end of the day, we are Ice Breakers. And we’re just getting started.

I come out of the huddle and lock eyes with Mabel once more. She’s standing by her seat with that cautious smile that’s been sneaking out more often lately. She cheered for me tonight. Cheered like she meant it.

The memory of her lips on mine, and her body in my arms as I held her, hits me like a body check, and suddenly, the game isn’t what I want to win anymore.

I want her.

And I have no idea how to get there—but I have to try.