Page 4

4

I’ve never been to a hockey practice before, and I have to admit, it’s kind of intense.

The arena buzzes with energy, even though it’s just a practice session. The sound of skates slicing across the ice, the sharp crack of sticks hitting pucks, the loud yells of voices calling out plays—it’s all so foreign to me, but strangely exhilarating.

I’m sitting in the nearly empty stands, clutching the edge of my seat, my heart racing as I watch Jack glide across the ice like he was born there.

And, okay, maybe I’ve gone a little overboard with my outfit.

I mean, I’m not exactly a sports jersey kind of girl, but I couldn’t resist getting creative. I took one of the standard Blue Ridge Buffaloes jerseys—Jack’s jersey, obviously, with the number nine proudly on the back and that cute little C on the front left—and gave it the Poppy treatment.

A few strategic cuts, some sequins, and a cute belt later, and I’m feeling like I’ve turned it into something that’s totally me while still supporting Jack. I’ve paired his blinged out jersey with skinny jeans and my favorite ankle boots.

I’m not sure what Jack will think of it, but when he skates by and spots me, his eyes light up like a Christmas tree, and my heart does a little flip.

I turn around and show him the silver number nine, grinning at him over my shoulder.

He grins too, slowing down for a moment to give me a nod of approval, and I giggle like a schoolgirl, feeling suddenly shy under his gaze. But then, in typical Jack Winters fashion, he tries to show off—skating backward, making all kinds of eyes at me—and promptly slams into the boards with a loud thud.

I gasp, my hands flying to my mouth as the sound echoes through the arena. For a second, the other players freeze, and so do I—wondering if he’s hurt. But then Jack pops up like it’s no big deal, laughing and waving off his teammates as they catcall and tease him.

I roll my eyes, my heart still pounding. He’s such a show-off, but he was showing off for me , and that makes me all kinds of butterfly-warm.

Watching Jack skate and shoot is a whole new level of entertainment. He’s so good at what he does, so in control on the ice, and I can’t help but feel a little pride bubbling up inside me.

He’s mine.

Well, sort of.

I’m lost in my own thoughts and Jack’s athleticism when I hear voices behind me—two women chatting a few rows back. I wasn’t paying attention before, but now their conversation catches my ear.

“…so then I told him, ‘If you think I’m going to be one of your little flings, you’ve got another thing coming.’”

My ears perk up, because who doesn’t love a little small town relationship drama?

“Ugh, seriously,” another voice chimes in. “Jack Winters is the worst. I mean, he’s hot, but everyone knows he’s not the kind of guy you settle down with. He’s had, like, a million girlfriends.”

My stomach drops. I try to focus on the ice, but their voices keep pulling me back.

“Right? And the worst part is, he’s so charming about it. Like, you almost want to forgive him because he’s ridiculously repentant every time he ends things with one of them. But trust me, once a player, always a player.”

I swallow hard, my hands gripping the edge of the seat. My heart starts to pound for a different reason now. Is that really how people see him? Is that who he is?

I mean, I’d heard about his reputation. Mia tried to warn me. But it’s different hearing people talk about it like this—like it’s a fact, like it’s inevitable that I’ll just be another name among “millions.”

I glance back at the ice. Jack’s skating forward fast now, that stick going left-right-left-right as he does, focused on whatever drill the team’s running, completely oblivious to the storm brewing inside me.

Suddenly, I feel very out of place.

I don’t belong here, and I’m not sure why I thought I did. I’ve been fooling myself into thinking that this thing between us could be real. I mean, look at him. He’s Jack Winters—professional hockey star, local celebrity, heartthrob. And I’m just…me. A boutique owner in a town I just moved to, with a cat and a pile of insecurities I haven’t quite managed to shake.

I stand up, the voices behind me still buzzing in my ears, this time about someone else on the team, and grab my purse. I can’t stay here. I can’t watch him, knowing that maybe this is all just one of a million. Not one in a million. That would be something.

Before I can second-guess myself, I turn and climb the steps to the exit, my boots clicking against the concrete floor. The arena feels too big, too cold all of a sudden, and I just need to get out of here before I lose it completely.

As soon as I step outside into the crisp evening air, my phone buzzes in my pocket.

It’s Jack.

Where’d you go?

I stare at the text, my fingers trembling. I don’t know how to respond; I’ve been gone for maybe two minutes.

Should I tell him the truth? Should I ask him about his past, about the things those women said? Or would that just make me seem insecure and needy?

Another text comes through before I can decide.

Practice is almost over, and I wanted to take you to dinner.

My heart aches at the thought of not being able to go to dinner with him, of never kissing him again. But I can’t shake the doubt, the fear that maybe this is all too good to be true.

I don’t know what to tell him, so I simply tuck my phone back into my purse and wrap my arms around myself as I start walking toward my car. I need time to think, to figure out what I’m doing here.

Here at the Buffaloes arena.

Here to watch Jack.

But also here in Blue Ridge.

“My boutique,” I whisper to myself, and it’s the reminder I need not to lose myself to the heat that can come from a thin sheet of ice.