Page 12

Twelve

Luna

I’ve got a lap full of snacks.

And I’m still stuffed from all of my Molly’s treats.

But am I shoving down popcorn by the handful?

Abso-fucking-lutely.

Mostly because I forgot how nerve-wracking it is to watch Aiden play.

He’s good, smooth and confident, connecting passes, anticipating what’s going to happen next, playing both excellent offense and defense.

But it’s fucking terrifying watching him out there.

It’s the collisions that have me holding my breath.

The sticks flying and pucks shooting across the ice far too fast, hitting the glass and boards, and sometimes the players, with sickening thunks .

Speaking of which, they all skate at warp speed with gear that doesn’t seem thick enough to protect them and?—

Carrie bumps her shoulder against mine. “Gonna breathe, kid?”

“I hate watching him,” I whisper. After, for the record, chewing my mouthful of popcorn and taking a long, slow breath.

“You do?” she asks, eyebrows drawn tightly together.

“I worry about him,” I whisper. “A lot of the guys are bigger than him and he might get hurt.” Another huge boom echoes through the arena, loud enough to be heard over the cheering crowd and I flinch.

“I know he’s good, that this is his job.

But that almost makes it worse. What if he doesn’t get hurt, but instead messes up and is upset with himself, and—” I break off, knowing I’m being ridiculous.

It’s a regular game for a season that’s only just barely gotten underway.

Yes, Aiden and his team want to win. But this isn’t a make-it-or-break it match up.

It’s just one game of many.

Of eighty-two, actually.

“Anyway,” I murmur. “It’s great that he’s out there. I’m just…stressed.”

Carrie’s expression is soft.

But she doesn’t call me on my nonsense, only bumps my shoulder again. “You’re sweet, Luna. You always have been.”

I’m not sure about that.

Especially, considering why I showed up, what I was hoping to do…

No .

I don’t want to think about that. Not right now.

I just…want to enjoy tonight and then move along with my problems, leaving Aiden to his uncomplicated life without fathers who are merciless and brothers who don’t care and dead grandmothers who meant well but threw a giant curveball into my life that I cannot seem to figure out how to navigate.

…and to Luna, dear. I leave you this personal letter.

Read it privately and if you manage to fulfill my request within the next calendar year, then my shares of Smythe Industries are yours to do with as you see fit.

Trust the process, break the curse, and know I love you so, so much.

But if, after that year, you haven’t succeeded, then the shares will revert on a fifty-fifty split to your father and brother.

The bequest shouldn’t be legal.

But somehow it is.

Something I know because my brother and father have spent the last eight months fighting it.

And every legal challenge comes back stating her will is iron clad.

“I’m not sure that Aiden would say I’m sweet,” I whisper.

She smirks. “I don’t think I’d take that bet.” A beat. Another bump of her shoulder. “Though, I don’t think I want to think about him and you being wicked…” She winks.

I narrow my eyes at her. “ Anyway ,” I mutter. “Enough talk about me and your brother. I want to hear about you, about what you’ve been up to.”

“Kids. Work. Husband. Rinse and repeat.” She grins when another crash reverberates through the arena and I jump.

“I love the kids. Love the husband. And my job on most days. On others I want to tear my hair out strand by strand because my boss is nice, but swear to fuck, he has the man gene where. He. Just. Doesn’t. Listen.”

I fight a smile.

Then lose my battle when Matt mutters, “We listen. We just don’t care.”

I giggle.

Carrie sighs, shakes her head.

And we all turn back to the game.

Just in time to watch Aiden jump over the boards and join in on a rush up the ice.

He skates rapidly into the offensive zone, trailing after his teammates as they cross the blue line, not immediately identifiable as a threat.

But he soon makes himself one—skating to the net, picking up a deflected shot, dancing around an opposing player.

I gasp when he’s slashed hard, the puck lurching away from him.

Only for a second, though.

Because, just as quickly, he’s regained control and is corralling the puck, moving to the goal. The defenseman doesn’t make it easy, stepping up, trying to block him, but Aiden doesn’t give up—just moves back to give himself some space.

Then he spots it.

Before I do, for sure.

And also before almost everyone on the ice—aside from his teammates.

Because one is streaking in, his stick down and ready…

For the puck that Aiden floats over to him.

The arena full of people all seem to freeze, every one of the twenty-thousand-plus people seeming to hold their breath for one prolonged heartbeat…

The puck flutters toward the tall, bearded player wearing a C on his chest.

He corrals it with a flick of his stick.

And the next flip has it sailing into the back of the net.

A beat of quiet.

Then the red light behind the goal begins to flash and the crowd explodes with cheers so loud my ears hurt. A moment later, the buzzer is joining in on the noise, the team’s celebratory song playing.

It’s complete and total chaos.

Cacophony.

But it’s beautiful.

Almost as beautiful as the looks on the faces of Kathy and Matt, Claire and Ralph and Dave’s faces.

The pride.

The joy.

The love.

Suddenly, I can’t keep up this facade, pretending that Aiden and I are together, not that I just showed up on his doorstep last night with a desperate plan and crazy intentions.

The guilt wells up, clamping onto my lungs, stealing my breath, crawling up my throat.

And then making my eyes burn.

Fuck .

I know I’m not going to be able to hold the tears back.

“Excuse me,” I say to Carrie, who looks over at me in shock.

“Are you okay?”

“My stomach hurts,” I manage to push out as the celebration begins to die. “Too much junk food today. Will you tell your mom that I’ll catch up with you all tomorrow?”

“Yes, but,” she adds as she stands, starts letting me step over her and into the aisle, “are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?”

“I’m fine.”

But I’m not fine—I don’t sound it and she can see that much.

So, when she opens her mouth, I force myself to take a moment, to keep holding those tears back, for my voice to be steady when I say, “I’ll talk to you guys tomorrow, okay?”

And only when she nods do I hurry up the stairs, the sounds of the hockey game below chasing me the entire way.