Page 29

I’m still not sure why Ragnar asked me, but I no longer want to know. Mostly because I enjoy spending time with him. And I don’t know what I’d do if he asked someone else.

“Mm-hm.” Tristan’s smile widens just a touch, and I feel my ears burn. “He’s so sweet. Like genuinely one of the kindest guys. It’s awesome to see more people noticing that side of him now. Did you know his social media blew up after he recorded that helmet video with me last year?”

I blink. “Yeah?” Of course it did. Has she seen him? Talked to him? Listened to the way he talks about Kat? It’s Prince Charming, swoon-worthy material. It’s the ultimate cinnamon roll, golden retriever boyfriend, just hidden in plain sight.

She laughs.

“Oh yeah. Like, big time. I figured you saw it since you’re working with him, but I reposted it for him on the team page.

He picked up a ton of new followers. Engagement’s way up.

People love him. Women love him.” She laughs.

“I was going to push him to do more, but figured it made him uncomfortable being in the spotlight. I may have been wrong.”

Pride blooms in my chest, sharp and golden, but something else is there too.

Something twisty and tight. A weird tangle of jealousy and happiness.

I hate that I even feel it, but there it is.

I want the world to know how amazing he is.

And I also want to be the only one he’s comfortable showing that part of himself too.

My selfishness washes me in a wave of hot shame.

“That’s amazing,” I say, and I mean it, even if my heart’s doing something complicated about it.

Tristan studies me for a beat. Her eyes bright with knowing.

I want to shift my weight, bounce my knees, twirl my hair, something to get this itchy feeling to stop.

I can feel the weight of her understanding like a fifty-pound anvil sitting on my chest. I’d drop her gaze if it didn’t feel like it would be a confession.

“He’s been posting more on his own, too. Which is huge,” Tristan says. “And now that he’s been showing his face outside the rink, I’ve been thinking. If he’s open to it, I’d love to talk to him about a targeted campaign. Something that really plays to his strengths.”

I smile, swallowing hard. “That would be so good, but I’m not sure why you’re telling me and not him.”

Tristan crosses her arms, leaning her hip against the wall.

I used to feel awkward next to Tristan. The same awkward that I feel around my mom and dad.

Like Tristan, mom is small. Narrow. I could fit into her clothes in middle school.

I’m not exaggerating. Specifically, this one plaid skirt that I used to wear to school.

Add in the perfect hair and makeup, and I always feel like I’ve gone three rounds through a dryer next to them.

“You know, I used to worry that his stutter would make things harder on camera. But honestly? I think it’s done the opposite.

People love how real he is. The way he takes his time, how thoughtful he is.

It’s… compelling.” She frowns. “I feel weird saying that. Like it shouldn’t matter how he talks.

The man speaks two fucking languages,” she shrugs.

“I can’t believe I fell for the ableist take. You know?”

Pride swells in my chest again, this time free of jealousy. “He’s incredible,” I say. The words might be quiet, but they come from the center of my chest.

Tristan bumps my arm. “You should tell him that.”

“I do.” I laugh under my breath. “I mean… I try.”

“Well, if you want to encourage him more, I can show him some comments people are leaving. There’s a ton of positivity.

It might give him a boost. Seriously, they love him.

There’s more than one marriage proposal.

” She leans in, grinning. “Not to mention…other… proposals.” The wiggling eyebrows are unnecessary. I know what she means.

“Yeah, okay.” I swallow past the hard lump at the base of my throat. “That’s probably a good idea.” I think I deserve credit for attempting to leave it at that, but I just can’t help adding, “but, maybe skip the ones from the super attractive women.”

Tristan’s eyebrows shoot up, and her smile goes sly. “Oh?”

Shit.

Yup. Should have kept my mouth shut. I assumed she already had all the evidence she needed. But I know what they say about assumptions. Tristan looks like her kitten Hela, the first time she caught a bug. Smug with satisfaction and reveling in the panic of others.

I flush, waving my hands. “No, I just—I mean, not that it matters. I just think he’d—you know, it might be… distracting.”

“Uh-huh,” Tristan says, dragging out the syllables like she’s savoring them. “Distracting.” One blonde eyebrow reaches for the heavens.

I bite my lip, staring down at my shoes. I think they might almost be ready for retirement. The high tops barely stand up anymore and the soles are fading fast. I can feel her watching me with that smug little smile. It’s a good thing I like her, or this might be embarrassing.

Before she can say anything else, the lights dim, signaling the third period’s impending start. The Stand’s announcer asks everyone to take their seats. Up on the Jumbotron, Howl, the mascot, dances with a group of kids.

Tristan leans in close.

“You know… if you two ever did want to make it official, you’d have an army of cheerleaders in your corner. Big ones. In hockey pads.” She presses closer, her lips almost grazing my ear. “Fuck the organization. Do what makes you both happy.”

Her voice is low and teasing. I don’t even have time to respond before she winks and slips away, phone already in hand, fingers tap tap tapping away. She leaves me rooted to the spot, my heart thudding wildly in my chest, and I settle back into my usual spot as the third period starts.

My brain is all over the place, a train with burnt out brakes speeding down a mountain pass.

My heart’s still galloping from my conversation with Tristan as I watch Ragnar glide out of the tunnel, his focus razor sharp, eyes locked on the puck as it drops at center ice.

God, he’s so good at this. He looks effortless out there, even with the blades strapped to his feet and the pounds of extra padding covering his legs.

Strong, calm, precise. Like he was born to do this. He was.

I rest my fingertips against the plexiglass, my palms sweating even though it’s decently chilly in here. It’s a pretty full house, but I swear preseason games feel colder than regular. And I actively sweat during playoffs. My eyes track every move Ragnar makes, but my mind won’t shut up.

Tristan’s words keep looping. “If you two ever did want to make it official…”

I want to laugh and groan at the same time.

Because… yeah. That’s the problem, isn’t it?

I want that. I want to throw away all the stupid pretense and just—ask him out.

Invite him over. Kiss him until we’re both dizzy.

I want to be the one he picks up in a bar, no talking required, and takes back to his bed.

I’m sure he knows what he’s doing there.

I want all of that and I know he does, too.

It’s easy, right now, to forget why I’m not going for Ragnar ólaffson.

He all but admitted he’d say yes. That he’s had a thing for me for a while.

But then I remember the way he looked at me that first day we made this deal.

How he asked for help. He trusted me. He didn’t ask for a date. He could have, but he didn’t.

I close my eyes for a second, breathing out slowly.

I can’t muddy the waters. I can’t be selfish.

He trusted me. He’s trusted me with his rehab, with his confidence, with this new version of himself that he’s trying so damn hard to build.

I owe it to him to keep this professional.

Clean. Even if my stomach twists every time he smiles at me.

Even if I feel like my skin’s still buzzing from when he grabbed my wrist earlier, even though it was only for a second.

I watch as he drops into a butterfly save, trapping the puck under his glove like it’s nothing. The crowd roars. His teammates tap their sticks against the ice. Ragnar looks up at the Jumbotron, then out around the arena.

My chest swells with pride. And something else.

Something messy and complicated and dangerous.

Because, yeah. I want him.

Not just in the stupid, superficial way. Not just his body—even though, hello, yes, have you seen him?—but his kindness. His steadiness. The way he looks at the world like it’s harsh and cruel and unforgiving, but he’s willing to stand his ground, anyway.

I bite my lip, eyes locked on him as he skates a lazy circle, waiting for the next face-off.

I want all of it.

But I can’t.

Not now.

Not when he’s counting on me to keep this simple.

I press my palm flat against my chest, trying to calm my racing heart. I force my focus back to the game, watching every move like my life depends on it. Ragnar skates out again, then settles back into his crease like he belongs there.

God help me, I don’t think this is just a crush. I think I’m falling for him.

And I have no idea what the hell to do about it.

The third period starts, and everything ramps up.

The other team is desperate to get on the board, and they throw everything they have at him.

Shot after shot, crash after crash. Play gets messier, the defense unable to keep the puck completely contained to the opposition’s zone.

My nails dig into my palm with every collision near the crease.

I catch glimpses of his eyes through the cage—ice blue, sharp, unwavering—and it hits me all over again just how much I care about him.

Not just as a player.

Not just as a client.

When the final buzzer sounds and the Arctic skates off with a 3-0 win, the place goes wild.

And Ragnar?

He just had a shutout. He’s the MVP. The first star of the game.

His teammates mob him, slapping his helmet, hugging him, shouting in his ear. He drops to one knee on the ice for a second, head bowed, like the weight of it all just hit him at once.

I’m frozen in place, heart hammering, eyes burning with tears of relief and joy and something deeper, something I don’t even know how to name.

He did it.

He’s back.

And he’s wonderful.