Page 10

My fingers trembled slightly as I set up my equipment on the sidelines of the away arena. The air buzzed with hostility, thick with the anticipation of rivalry. Wolves’ biggest crosstown enemy was hosting us tonight, and even I, the sports photography novice, knew this game carried historic significance.

"You okay there?" Tyler asked, pausing as he headed toward the ice. "You look like you're about to photograph a firing squad, not a hockey game."

I forced a smile. "Just setting up. Are the away games always this intense?”

Tyler laughed, adjusting his goalie mask. "Wait till they start the chants. Their fans have been practicing creative ways to destroy our will to live all week." He glanced over at the opposing team's side. "Especially for Ethan. They love targeting him."

"Why Ethan specifically?" I asked, fiddling with my camera settings.

"His dad," Tyler said simply. "Richard was legendary, and these guys never let Ethan forget he's playing in his shadow." He tapped his mask. "Don't worry, though. It just makes him play harder."

As Tyler skated away, I scanned the rink, automatically seeking out Ethan's tall form. He was already on the ice for warm-ups, his movements precise but noticeably tense. Even from this distance, I could see the rigid set of his shoulders, the tightness in his jaw.

The opposing fans were already starting, their coordinated jeers rising above the pre-game music. My stomach clenched when I heard the first personal taunt directed at Ethan: "Daddy can't save you tonight, Wright!"

I peered through my viewfinder, focusing on Ethan's face. His expression remained impassive, but I caught the slight twitch in his jaw, the momentary flash of something raw in his eyes before he buried it. It made my chest ache in a way I wasn't expecting. I barely knew the guy few weeks ago, and now I was feeling personally offended on his behalf.

This is just a job , I reminded myself sternly. A mutually beneficial arrangement. Nothing more.

But the mantra felt increasingly hollow.

The arena erupted as both teams took their positions for the opening face-off. I held my breath, camera poised, as the referee dropped the puck. Immediately, the game exploded into a frenzy of motion more aggressive than any I'd photographed before. Bodies slammed against the boards with sickening thuds that made me wince. Sticks clashed. Players barked at each other during face-offs, their eyes narrowed with genuine animosity.

Through my lens, I tracked Ethan moving across the ice, his speed and control impossible to ignore. The opposing team was clearly targeting him, sending their biggest players to check him at every opportunity. Each time he was slammed into the boards, I found myself tensing, a knot forming in my stomach that had nothing to do with getting the perfect shot.

By the second period, the penalty boxes had a revolving door of occupants from both teams. The game was getting uglier by the minute, the rivalry spilling over into dangerous territory. I kept shooting, capturing grimaces, flying sweat, and the increasing desperation on both benches.

Then it happened.

Ethan had the puck, flying down the ice with the grace that still amazed me. I didn't see where the opposing player came from—just a blur from the left that crashed into Ethan with brutal force. The crowd roared as both players went down, but while the other guy bounced back up, Ethan stayed sprawled on the ice.

My heart stopped. The camera lowered slightly in my hands as I held my breath, eyes fixed on his motionless form. The arena went strangely quiet, a collective pause as everyone watched. Coach Alvarez was already on his feet, signaling to the medical staff.

"Come on," I whispered, surprising myself with the fervent prayer. "Get up, Ethan."

Seconds stretched like hours. Finally, painfully, Ethan shifted. He pushed himself up on one elbow, then to his knees. The relief that flooded through me was so powerful it made me dizzy. When he stood fully, clearly in pain but refusing the medic's suggestion to leave the ice, I found myself smiling with ridiculous pride.

I lifted my camera again, capturing his grimace and the determined set of his jaw as he skated back to position. There was something stunning about his refusal to yield, something that made my finger press the shutter button repeatedly.

The face-off after the injury timeout positioned Ethan directly across from the opposing captain, close enough to the team benches that I could hear their exchange. The opposing captain leaned in, his voice low but carrying just enough.

"Must be hard knowing you'll never be half the player your daddy was," he sneered, his mouth barely moving. "Living in his shadow suits you, though. Plenty of room for disappointment there."

I inhaled sharply, anger flaring hot and unexpected in my chest. Through my lens, I captured the exact moment the words registered—Ethan's eyes flashing cold, his jaw clenching so hard I could almost hear his teeth grinding before the referee dropped the puck.

I lowered my camera momentarily, surprised by my own visceral reaction. Since when did I care this much about hockey trash talk? Since when did seeing Ethan take a hit make my heart stop? Since when did a stranger's cruel words to him make me want to march onto the ice and commit highly photogenic acts of violence?

The second period ended with the Wolves down by two goals, the opposing team having scored twice in quick succession. I watched Ethan in the moments before the third period, as he gathered his teammates in a tight circle. Even from my position, I could read the determination in his posture, the refusal to accept defeat in the rigid line of his back.

Whatever he said galvanized them. They returned to the ice with renewed focus, their movements more coordinated, their passes sharper. I kept shooting, marveling at how they seemed to move as a single unit now, with Ethan at the center.

The breakthrough came midway through the third period when a rival player deliberately tripped Tyler, sending him sprawling and earning Wolves a penalty shot. Coach Alvarez pointed to Ethan without hesitation.

I lowered my camera, my pulse suddenly racing. The hostile crowd rose to their feet, a thunderous wall of opposition as Ethan positioned himself for the shot. I was acutely aware that NHL scouts were supposedly somewhere in this arena, watching this exact moment.

"Come on," I whispered, my camera temporarily forgotten in my hands. "You've got this."

The arena held its breath as Ethan approached the goal with controlled speed, his movements hypnotic as he feinted left, then right, before flicking the puck with surgical precision past the goalie's outstretched glove.

"YES!" The cheer burst from me before I could stop it, loud enough to turn heads among the other press photographers. Heat flooded my face as I quickly raised my camera again, pretending I'd been shooting the whole time. From the ice, I caught Dylan's amused glance in my direction, his knowing smile making me blush harder.

Professional distance be damned , a voice in my head muttered. This is getting complicated.

The final minutes of the game were excruciating, both teams exhausted but pushing themselves harder, emotions running high. With just forty seconds left on the clock, Ethan broke away with the puck, drawing defenders to him before making an impossibly accurate pass to Dylan, who buried it in the net.

The arena erupted—half in despair, half in celebration. I was on my feet with the rest of the Wolves supporters, camera clicking furiously to capture the team's celebration. But my favorite shot—the one I knew instinctively would be special—was of Ethan's face in the second after the buzzer. Pure relief and joy transformed his features, making him look younger, unburdened, genuinely happy in a way I'd never witnessed before.

After filing the required shots to my editor Mark via my laptop, I waited outside the locker room, telling myself I was just being a convincing girlfriend. The hallway was quiet compared to the still-buzzing arena, the concrete walls amplifying the muffled sounds from inside the locker room.

I leaned against the wall, scrolling through my photos, lingering on that shot of Ethan's unguarded joy. Something about it made my chest tight. I'd photographed technically more impressive moments tonight—brutal checks, diving saves, the actual game-winning goal—but this quiet moment of genuine emotion felt more significant than any of them.

The realization hit me with uncomfortable clarity: I wasn't just photographing hockey anymore. I was photographing Ethan. I cared about the game because I cared about him.

Oh god , I thought, mild panic setting in. This is not part of the arrangement.

The locker room door burst open before I could properly freak out, players spilling into the hallway still buzzing with victory energy. I straightened, plastering on my "supportive girlfriend" smile, scanning for Ethan.

He emerged near the end, hair still damp from the shower. The moment he saw me, his face lit up in a way that did absolutely nothing to calm my internal crisis. The next thing I knew, he was striding toward me with purpose.

"You waited," he said, sounding genuinely pleased.

"Of course," I replied, aiming for casual. "Got some amazing shots. The paper's going to—"

I didn't finish because suddenly I was airborne, Ethan's strong hands gripping my waist as he lifted me in an exuberant hug that left me momentarily breathless. My camera bag bumped awkwardly between us, but I barely noticed, too distracted by the warmth of his body and the disorienting sensation of being held aloft.

"We did it!" he said, his face inches from mine, eyes bright with victory. “Did you see that final play? That shot was absolute perfection!”

His joy was so pure that I found myself laughing, hands instinctively braced on his broad shoulders for balance. "It was amazing," I agreed, suddenly very aware of how close our faces were, how easily I could just lean forward and—

The thought was barely formed before Ethan closed the distance, his lips finding mine with an urgency that sent electricity down my spine. This wasn't like our previous kisses—the awkward peck at the festival entrance, or even the more convincing performance for Vanessa's benefit. This was something else entirely. Genuine. Hungry. Real.

I responded immediately, forgetting we were in a hallway, forgetting this was fake, forgetting everything except the feel of his mouth on mine and the solid warmth of his body. My hands moved to the back of his neck, fingers sliding into his damp hair as the kiss deepened.

Someone wolf-whistled nearby, breaking the moment. Ethan slowly lowered me back to the ground, but didn't step away, his eyes searching mine with an intensity that made my heart race.

"We should probably..." he started, then cleared his throat. "I mean, the team is heading out to celebrate, but maybe we could—"

"Go somewhere else?" I finished, surprising myself with my boldness.

His smile was answer enough. "There's a quiet spot I know," he said, his voice low. "Nobody will be there now."

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak as he took my hand. I didn't want to think about what this meant or where it was headed. I didn't want to acknowledge that the lines were blurring beyond recognition. I just wanted this—his warmth, his touch, the intoxicating reality of being wanted by him.

Reality could wait until tomorrow.

He pulled me through the brightly lit corridor, away from the lingering celebration, away from inquiring eyes. My heart hammered against my ribs, a chaotic rhythm driven by the unexpected fierceness of his kiss moments before, and the sheer force of his determination now. His fingers were laced tightly with mine.

He veered sharply, tugging me toward a narrow door marked ‘Maintenance Access’. It clicked open easily, revealing a small, dim space crowded with rolled-up hoses, metal shelving stacked with cleaning supplies, and the faint, musty smell of dust. He pulled me inside, letting the door swing shut with a soft thump that seemed to seal us off from the rest of the world.

In the sudden quiet, broken only by our ragged breathing, the energy shifted. The frantic escape transformed into pure, focused need. He turned, pinning me gently against the cool metal of a shelf unit, his body a solid wall against mine. His eyes, usually sharp and calculating on the ice, were dark, dilated, filled with an intensity directed solely at me.

"Mia," he breathed, the single word a raw sound.

Then his mouth was on mine again. There was no hesitation this time. This was raw, hungry. His kiss was deep, demanding, tongue tangling with mine in a desperate dance. I met his urgency, wrapping my arms around his neck, pulling him closer, needing the solid weight of him. One of his hands slid down my back, pressing me harder against the shelving, the metal digging slightly into my skin, while the other tangled in my hair, tilting my head back to give him better access. A groan vibrated in his chest, travelling through me, igniting something deep and primal.

We broke apart, gasping for air, foreheads resting together. "Ethan," I whispered, my voice shaky.

"Couldn't wait," he muttered, his breath warm against my cheek. "Not after seeing you wearing the jersey, watching me."

His admission sent a fresh wave of heat through me. It wasn't just adrenaline anymore. It was this connection, the one we’d pretended didn't exist, now sparking like faulty wiring in the dim light. My fingers fumbled with the zipper of the borrowed team jacket I wore over my clothes, needing less barrier between us. He mirrored the action, his hands going to the buttons of his own damp practice jersey, tearing at them with impatience.

"Help me," he urged, his voice rough.

My fingers, suddenly clumsy, worked at the remaining buttons while his hands slid under my jacket, pushing it off my shoulders. It fell to the dusty floor with a soft thump. His palms skimmed my sides, finding the hem of my t-shirt beneath. He didn't ask, just bunched the fabric in his fists and pulled it over my head, tossing it aside without looking. The cool air hit my bare skin, raising goosebumps, but the heat radiating from him, the fire in his gaze, banished any chill.

He stared at my bra, a simple cotton thing, his eyes tracing the lines before meeting mine again. Then his mouth claimed mine once more, hotter this time, as his hands worked behind my back, fumbling for the clasp. I arched into him when it gave way, my breasts pressing against the hard muscle of his chest through the thin fabric of his undershirt. He groaned again, pulling back just enough to push the straps down my arms, freeing me.

His gaze dropped, fixed on my bare chest. A thrill shot through me, mixed with a sudden shyness. But his expression wasn't critical. It was pure, unadulterated appreciation. He reached out, his fingers ghosting over my skin before cupping one boob, his thumb stroking across the nipple. I gasped, my back arching further, pressing him against the shelves again. He lowered his head, his mouth closing over the sensitive peak, tongue flicking, suckling gently. My knees nearly buckled. I gripped his shoulders, my nails digging slightly into his skin.

"Ethan, please," I choked out, not even sure what I was asking for, just needing more.

He moved to the other breast, giving it the same devastating attention before straightening up, his eyes blazing. His hands went to the button of my jeans, then the zipper. I held my breath as he slid them down my hips, catching my underwear along the way. They pooled around my ankles, trapping my feet. He didn’t seem to care. His hands slid up my bare thighs, fingers finding the damp curls between them.

He looked down, his gaze tracing the juncture of my legs. My face flushed, but I couldn’t look away from the raw hunger etched on his features. "You're so beautiful, Mia," he whispered, his voice husky. "So wet for me."

Then, shocking me completely, he sank to his knees right there on the dusty concrete floor. He looked up at me, his hands gripping my ass firmly, anchoring me. I gripped the metal shelf behind me, my knuckles turning white.

His hair brushed against my stomach as he leaned in. The first touch of his tongue sent a lightning bolt straight through me. I gasped his name, my head falling back against the cold metal. He explored my pussy with meticulous focus, his tongue tracing, dipping, swirling. It was overwhelming, intimate beyond anything I’d imagined. Soft, involuntary whimpers escaped my lips. I felt the tension coiling low in my belly, tightening, building with every clever flick and gentle suckle. He hummed, a low sound of approval against my clit, his fingers digging slightly into my ass cheeks, tilting me for better access.

"Almost there?" he murmured against my pussy, his breath hot.

I couldn't answer, could only nod frantically, lost in the spiraling pleasure. He seemed to sense it, his rhythm becoming faster, more insistent, pressure focusing on that one tiny nub that held all my nerve endings. It was too much. The world dissolved into pure sensation. A choked cry tore from my throat as my climax ripped through me, sharp, electric, leaving me trembling uncontrollably. My legs shook, and I sagged against the shelves, utterly spent.

He stayed there for a moment longer, lapping gently, soothing the hypersensitive skin before pressing a soft kiss to my pussy. He rose slowly, his eyes dark and searching as he took in my flushed face, my kiss-swollen lips, my dazed expression. He reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair from my face.

He didn't speak, just helped me step out of the jeans tangled around my ankles. Then he pulled me into his arms, holding me close against his warm chest, letting me catch my breath. The maintenance alcove suddenly felt like the safest place in the world. Nothing felt fake anymore. Nothing at all.