Page 6 of Hockey Halloween

Ford

Willa lets me hold her free hand through the exhibit and I swear something in my body changes from the touch alone.

Her fingers fit perfectly between mine, and neither of us comments on it.

We don’t need to. The restless energy under my skin goes quiet with the connection.

Maybe I’ve been wound too tight and didn’t know it until now.

I glance around the space—rows of old jerseys, team banners and yellowed press clippings cover the walls and other surfaces.

It makes me think about how hockey is more than a sport; it’s a way of life, making people feel like they belong to something bigger than themselves.

I love being a part of that world, even if it brings pressure and high expectations to my life.

I still know how extremely blessed I am to play the sport I love for living.

“I didn’t expect tonight to be anything more than loud music and forced small talk,” I share after a quiet beat. “Then you showed up?—”

“Dressed like a mummy,” she cuts in.

“You're the hottest mummy I’ve ever seen.”

She lets out an unguarded laugh that’s quickly becoming addictive. “You’re ridiculous. ”

“Maybe,” I give her hand the gentle squeeze, tugging her forward, “but it makes you smile so bright, so why stop?”

We take in the displays at an easy pace. We’re making time rather than losing it. Our fingers stay locked, the building connection between us needing the reassurance of skin on skin.

Willa pauses in front of a framed photograph—a grainy, black-and-white shot of a championship parade from the fifties. Crowds of people line the street, their faces tilted to the sky and mouths open in excitement.

“This one’s my favorite,” she says dreamily. “Look at their pure joy. The kind that doesn’t fade, even after the photo yellows.”

Instead of the old snapshot, I study her profile and the soft glow radiating from her in this safe space she’s sharing with me. The way her mesmerizing eyes shine as she admires the display. How her lips part just a little when she’s mid-thought.

“Having that kind of joy preserved in time,” she continues, “This is why I love working here. These aren’t just items or memorabilia; they’re proof. Proof that people lived, that they loved things deeply, and what they did mattered.”

The confident way she states it hits in a place I usually keep buried beneath stats, noise, and whatever mask the media expects me to wear. Because isn’t that what we all want in the end? To matter and to be remembered.

I pull out my phone, inspired to make tonight even more memorable. “I want to do something with you.”

Her brow lifts, teasing. “Is it another surprise?”

“Sort of.” I scroll through my music app, thumb hovering over a song I’ve loved for years and fits the moment. I tap the screen, putting it on repeat. The soulful notes of “Beyond” by Leon Bridges spill out through the phone speaker.

She tilts her head. “Slow dancing in a museum?”

“Tell me it’s not perfect,” I say, putting the device in my shirt pocket and hold out a hand.

She shakes her head, smiling as she steps forward. “You’re impossible, Nolan Ford.”

“No objections, my Muse. ”

She pauses mid-step, her fingers brushing mine. “Muse?”

“I mean, I’m not an artist. I don’t paint or write songs or stories—” I take a calming breath, trying to find the right words. “But you make me want to be more and vocalize what I actually feel instead of hiding behind whatever I’m supposed to be. You get under my skin in the best possible way.”

Her expression softens with admiration, so I continue. "The way you talked about how those stories matter, how their joy deserves to be preserved. That struck a chord with me. Not a lot of people have made a huge impression on me this quickly. But you did."

She’s quiet for a moment, eyes shining bright. Then she steps closer, looping her arms around my neck. “I guess I really am your muse then.”

“I’m glad we can agree on that.”

Wrapping my arms around her waist, I pull her in. Her body settles into mine, fitting so naturally it feels inevitable. The scent of her— cinnamon—wraps around me.

We sway, slow and unhurried, between glass cases full of history. Surrounded by everything that came before us and a new story being written in our movements.

“You’re the calm I didn’t know I needed in my life,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper, afraid that anything louder might shatter the moment.

She leans back to look at me, her gaze searching mine. “That’s probably the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“You clearly need to meet better people.”

She smirks. “Or you just need to keep talking.”

“I can do that,” I murmur, dipping my head and brushing my lips across hers. “I have so much more to share with you.”

“Start with something sweet then.”

“I can’t believe someone as wonderful as you exists,” I let the truth pour out. “You’re absolutely brilliant. The way your brain works fascinates me. Seeing you light up when you talk about the past and how it matters? It floors me like your beauty does.”

Her hands tighten at the back of my neck, and I keep going, moving my lips near her ear. “I enjoy how you challenge me to be more open and see things in new ways. You also listen and care about what comes out of my mouth—even the stuff no one else sticks around long enough to hear.”

She exhales slowly, the breath tickling on my skin.

“I love your laugh and how your eyes crinkle at the corners when something really gets to you. I also appreciate that you’re brave enough to be here with me, even if it scares you.

You make me want to stay and not run away.

For as long as you’ll have me. I know it’s wild because we just met, but I can feel our connection in every cell of my body,” I finish.

She stills in my arms and I wonder if anyone has said this to her in the past? If I’m the first one to share such words with her.

Her searching gaze flicks to mine, and whatever she finds there, makes her rise onto her tiptoes. Her lips are desperate for mine, matching the weight of what I’m feeling. Our mouths move together, writing brand new words between us with every press and pull.

When the track repeats for the sixth time, we’re still wrapped around each other, foreheads touching, hearts racing in sync.

“You okay?” I ask tenderly.

“More than okay.”

I still feel how new this is. So I don’t let go yet, letting the moment anchor itself inside both of us.

After a few minutes, she leans back, her cheeks flushed. “You know this wasn’t what I expected from tonight.”

“No?” I tease, even though I know exactly what she means.

She shakes her head. “I’m really glad I met you. That you were in that club exactly when I needed you.”

I reach up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Me too.”

Willa takes my hand gently, her fingers threading through mine. Without a word, she lifts it and presses a soft kiss to my palm.

“Come on.” She tugs me toward the hallway. “It's time to show you the archives. The real heart of this place.”

Following her without question, I let her lead me down the corridor lit by warm track lighting. The soft sound of our footsteps echoes off the walls. We pass storage rooms, locked cabinets, and a sliding security door. She swipes her ID badge and types in a code.

“You ready?” she asks, glancing over her shoulder.

“If it’s anything like you, I’m going to be obsessed.”

That earns me a flush across her cheeks. She doesn’t respond with a quip this time, but presses the door open. “Then come in.”

I do. Because whatever this is—whatever strange gravity is pulling me closer—I don’t want to fight it. Not tonight. Not with her.

Pushing the door inward and flicking on the lights, my Muse casts a look over her shoulder that sends a ripple of anticipation through my chest. It’s similar to the breath before a puck drop, that still second before motion explodes.

In that charged silence, I realize I’m ready for whatever comes after the drop.