Page 3

T he hockey game was not like what I expected.

Stepping into the arena was like being swallowed whole by a beast made of sound and color. Neon lights pulsed along the corridors, guiding the human blood cells flowing through its veins to their designated seats. The air was thick with the scent of popcorn and hot dogs, laced with an underlying note of excitement that made my heart race. I clutched my bag strap with one hand, the other hidden inside, grasping my phone, which was already recording.

When I’d mentioned to my editor that I was meeting Demian after a hockey match, he’d gone berserk, and practically ordered me to record it so that I could write an article about it. My editor's voice echoed in my mind, "Capture the evening, Tilly. That way, if that weirdo says anything bizarre, you’ve got it on record." Easy for him to say, he wasn't the one standing here, jittery as a cat on a hot tin roof.

I found my seat among the roaring fans, their cheers a physical force pushing against me. I fumbled with my phone, trying to keep my head straight, to balance the journalist hat with the . . . other hat. The one that had my adrenaline spiking.

Then, the players skated out. Spotlights swept across the ice, illuminating him. Demian. Number 19. Even in full gear, he stood out—a sleek panther ready to pounce. My breath hitched as he glided with that effortless grace, his tall, broad form commanding attention.

"Jesus, he's something else, isn't he?" The guy next to me leaned in, nudging my arm. I just nodded, my gaze locked onto Demian as he took his position.

A surge of adrenaline rushed through me, the magnetic pull from our interview flooding back. My phone shook slightly in my hand as I started recording notes, but my eyes? They were glued to him. Pierce, his name emblazoned on his jersey.

"You a Pierce fan?" The guy asked, his eyes on the ice but his attention clearly on me.

I nodded again, my mouth dry. "Something like that."

He chuckled, "Well, he's got a hell of a slapshot. I bet we’re in for a treat today."

A treat indeed.

I took out a notebook, determined to make some notes.

“You writing something?” the fan next to me asked.

“Just something for the paper.”

He nodded in acknowledgement.

My mind flashed back to our interview, his intense gray eyes, the way his presence filled the room. The way he filled . . . other things. I shifted in my seat, heat coursing through me.

Demian turned, his helmet obscuring his face, but I could feel his gaze. It was like a physical touch, sending a shiver down my spine. The air around me felt electric, every nerve ending standing at attention.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the announcer boomed, "Welcome to tonight's game!"

The crowd roared, but all I could hear was the pounding of my own heart. All I could see was number 19. And all I could think was, Game on, Demian. Game on.

The arena lights dimmed, spotlights swooping and converging on the ice. The puck dropped with a sharp crack, sticks clashing like drawn swords. I gripped my pen, notebook balanced on my knee, but my eyes were glued to Demian. He launched into motion, powerful legs propelling him forward, carving the ice with sure, swift strokes.

"Come on, ref! You fucking blind?" a fan behind me shouted, his voice hoarse with passion. I’d missed whatever it was that the ref was meant to have seen, but I jotted down the quote, the fervor in the air palpable. But my gaze strayed back to Demian, his broad shoulders cutting through the chill, his every movement a symphony of controlled power.

He slammed an opponent into the boards, the crunch of impact resonating in my chest. A shiver ran through me, not from the cold, but from the raw, primal display. Demian was a force on that ice, a predator in his element. I bit my lip, trying to focus on my notes. Crowd size: massive. Atmosphere: electric. Me: distracted as hell.

"Pierce is on fire tonight!" the announcer boomed. Demian sped past, stick handling with deft precision, his form a blur of grace and muscle. My pulse quickened, heat pooling low in my belly. This was more than just a game; it was a dance, a brutal ballet, and Demian was the star.

He slid near my side of the ice, spraying a fan of snow against the plexiglass. I started, my heart thumping. His helmet obscured his face, but I felt his gaze, intense and piercing. Like a caress, it sent a shiver down my spine. I inhaled sharply, the air crisp and cool, a stark contrast to the heat coursing through me.

"You getting all this, sweetheart?" The guy next to me leaned over, his eyes on my notebook.

I nodded, my mouth dry. "Every word."

He chuckled, nudging me with his elbow. "Make sure you mention me!"

I laughed. “Will do.”

Demian swooped past again, his presence commanding, impossible to ignore. My pen hovered over the page, forgotten. I was here to report, to capture the spirit of the game, the energy of the crowd. But all I could focus on was him—his power, his grace, his undeniable allure.

A roar from the crowd, a crash of bodies against the boards. I jumped, my heart pounding. The action was relentless, the players tireless. But Demian was a class apart. He moved with an arrogant confidence, a smooth grace that belied his brute strength. It reminded me of a dancer, a lover—all power and artistry combined.

I shifted in my seat, heat flooding through me. This was more than just a game; it was foreplay, a tease, a tantalizing display of male prowess. And I was more than just a spectator; I was a participant, a willing captive to Demian's spell. My notebook slipped from my grasp, forgotten. All that mattered was him, his prowess, his power. His promise.

He was dominating the other team.

I gripped the edge of my seat, knuckles white, as Demian sliced through the chaos. Then, like a bolt of lightning, his gaze locked onto mine. Time froze in that split second.

Before I could process the jolt of connection, Demian wound up his stick. A crack echoed through the arena as he blasted a slapshot toward the goal. The puck sailed past the goalie's outstretched glove, ripping into the net with such force it sent a shiver down my spine.

The crowd exploded, a deafening roar that vibrated through my chest. I shot to my feet, heart pounding wildly. "Holy shit," I gasped, clutching the collar of my shirt. Professionalism be damned—I was just another fan, swept up in the exhilaration, cheering for him. For Demian.

"That's how it's done, folks!" the announcer boomed, but his voice barely registered over the thunderous applause. I couldn't tear my eyes away from Demian, circling the ice like a conquering hero. He skated toward my section, and I swear I could feel his presence before he even reached the plexiglass.

With a cocky half-smile, he lifted the puck from his stick, tapping it against the barrier. My breath hitched as he flipped it over the glass, sending it spinning directly into my hands. I fumbled, clutching it to my chest, fingers curling protectively around the cold, slick surface.

"Lucky girl!" someone shouted nearby, but all I could focus on was the heat rising in my cheeks, the electric thrill coursing through me. This was more than just a souvenir.

"You gonna share that puck, sweetheart?" The guy next to me leaned over, his eyes gleaming with envy.

"Not a chance," I breathed, clutching it tighter. My heart raced, a mix of exhilaration and embarrassment flooding through me. I couldn't stop smiling, my cheeks aching from the width of my grin.

I sank back into my seat, the puck clutched tightly in my hands, a pulsing reminder of the intimacy we shared amidst the roaring crowd.

The rest of the game passed in a blur. I was too caught up watching Demian to take in much of anything else. He moved like liquid silver, fluid and relentless, a stark contrast to the chaotic storm of the game. Every assist, every goal, every command he barked at his teammates—it all pulled me under his spell.

The final buzzer blared, a harsh, echoing blare that signaled the end. The Avalanche had won, and the crowd roared. I stood, phone still recording, capturing the jubilant screams and stomping feet. But my eyes—they were locked onto Demian as he pulled off his helmet, his damp hair sticking up in dark spikes. His face was flushed, eyes gleaming with triumph and something else. Something primal.

He looked at me. Really looked at me. A wave of heat crashed through me, starting at my toes, flooding up to my cheeks. I thought I might combust right there, melt into a puddle on the sticky arena floor.

His gaze didn’t just see me; it touched me. Intimately. Like a secret caress in a room full of people. I swallowed hard, my breath hitching as if he’d actually brushed his fingers against my skin.

I was meeting Demian after the game by the players exit. Moments later, a security guard came to collect me and guide me through the throng.

It wasn’t just me waiting. Other reporters clustered around the exit, a swarm of hungry vultures waiting for their pound of flesh. I hung back, fingering the puck Demian had given me in my bag, next to my phone. My heart pounded in my chest, each beat echoing in my ears like a drumroll.

I snuck a glance at my reflection in the metal door. Cheeks flushed, hair a frizzy mess from the arena’s heat. I looked like I’d been riding a rollercoaster—half exhilarated, half terrified. “Calm down, Tilly,” I muttered to myself, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “This is not a date. This is work. He just wants to open up more, for his public image.”

But my body wasn’t buying it. My nerves hummed like live wires, every inch of me tingling with anticipation. I could still feel his gaze on me, like a phantom touch. I could still see that commanding presence, the way he owned the ice. The way he might own me, if I let him.

A commotion at the door snapped me back to reality. The players were starting to emerge, laughing and shouting, high on adrenaline and victory. I took a deep breath, forcing my professional mask into place. But my heart wouldn’t stop pounding. And my hand wouldn’t stop clutching that damn puck.

I was in trouble. Big, big trouble.

Finally, the very last player to emerge was Demian. Still dressed in his under-armor top, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder like it was no big deal. His eyes swept the area, and when they landed on me, everything else faded into background noise. He walked towards me, all slow and steady, a smirk playing on his lips.

"Damn. You look gorgeous," he said, his voice low.

I almost passed out.

“Ex-excuse me?”

“Sorry, is that out of line?”

My heart kicked into overdrive, pounding so hard I could feel it in my fingertips. I was aware of the phone in my hand, still recording, but I couldn't form a single word. He looked at me, really looked, and it was like we were the only two people in the world.

“No. Not out of line,” I managed.

“Sorry. I wasn’t expecting to say that. I just—instinct took over.”

I could feel my cheeks getting redder and redder.

“It’s fine. Thank you. Thank you for the friendly compliment.”

He tilted his head towards a quieter spot in the hallway, and I followed him, my heels clicking on the polished floor. The air was cooler here, but I could feel the heat radiating off him. He was still amped up from the game, every line of his body taut and ready.

He turned to face me, his voice softer than I'd ever heard it. "I don’t usually do this, Tilly. Give people tickets to games. Meet them afterward. I can’t explain it. I just have this feeling about you."

His words hit me like a punch to the gut. I hesitated, my thumb hovering over the record button on my phone. I didn't know what to say, what to do. I was here for a story, but this . . . this felt like something else entirely.

He leaned in, his voice barely a whisper. "I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since the interview. It’s kind of annoying, honestly. But the fact is . . . I think I might like you, Tilly. I hope that’s not too forward."

I flicked off the recorder, my breath hitching. This moment was too raw, too real, to be turned into a soundbite. I looked up at him, my heart hammering in my chest. His eyes were intense, but there was a softness there too, like he was laying down his cards, waiting for me to show my hand.

“You might like me?”

He shrugged. “Romantically. I know it’s a lot. I just, uh, find it hard not to be honest. Part of the reason coach doesn’t let me do interviews. I’m a little impulsive.”

I swallowed hard, my mouth suddenly dry. This was uncharted territory, a blurred line between professional and personal. But in that moment, I didn’t care. I was drawn to him, to the intensity in his eyes, to the promise of something more. And I was ready to dive in, consequences be damned.

Frankly, I found his confidence to be really damn attractive. He knew what he wanted, and he wasn’t afraid to try to get it.

Demian's hand, still warm from the game, slipped around my wrist. His fingers, strong and sure, circled it easily. He didn't tug or rush, just guided, his touch sparking a trail of goosebumps up my arm. I looked around, half-expecting flashbulbs or eager fans, but the hallway was empty save for the distant echo of slamming lockers.

"Come with me? For a bite to eat? We can talk," he murmured, his voice low and steady. It wasn't a command, but a suggestion, one that sent a thrill through me.

There was no way on Earth I could say no. “Okay. That sounds good.”

He led me out and I found myself matching his stride, his pace confident but never hurried. My heart still pounded from his earlier words, a rhythm that seemed to echo in the quiet corridor.

I expected him to lead us to some VIP lounge, all sleek leather and hushed tones. Instead, we pushed through a side door, the cool night air biting at my cheeks. Across the street, a neon sign flickered, the letters "Patty's Place" blinking in and out. A burger joint. My surprise must have shown because Demian chuckled, a soft rumble that sent a shiver down my spine.

"I'm not big on fancy," he admitted, his voice wrapping around me like a warm blanket. “But I am big on burgers.” He shot me a playful smile, a side of him I hadn't seen before. It made my cheeks flush, my stomach flipping in a way that had nothing to do with hunger.

"Plus, I had this instinct that you might be a milkshake fan," he added, his eyes twinkling with amusement. I stumbled slightly, his hand tightening around mine to steady me.

Well, he was right. I was just about the biggest shake fiend you could imagine. I’d had a lot of shakes in a lot of spots around town, but never Patty’s Place.

“I have been known to enjoy the occasional milkshake. From time to time.”

“Perfect.” He gave me a warm smile that made my stomach do backflips.

The diner was a blur of red vinyl and shiny chrome. We slid into a booth, the seat squeaking beneath me. Everything felt normal, almost surreal after the charged atmosphere of the arena. The faint hum of the fryer, the clink of cutlery, the low murmur of conversation—it all anchored me, even as my heart continued to race.

Demian ordered for both of us, rattling off pancakes and a vanilla shake for me and a burger for himself. Then, without missing a beat, he added, "Extra sprinkles on the pancakes, please." I blinked, my mouth opening slightly in amusement. He couldn't possibly know, could he? My love for pancakes, my silly obsession with sprinkles . . . it was all too much.

He looked at me, his eyes holding that same intensity from before, but now there was a softness too. A playfulness.

“How did you know I’d want extra sprinkles?”

“Who doesn’t want extra sprinkles?”

I laughed.

Demian leaned back, his eyes never leaving mine. The air between us crackled, the tension palpable. I could feel the weight of his gaze, the promise in his eyes.

“Sorry,” I said, “this is so weird. I can’t really believe I’m here with you.”

“Me too,” he said. “I can’t remember the last time I let someone new into my life. It’s actually pretty nerve-wracking.”

“You don’t get nervous.”

“I do. Before every single game.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“It’s true. If I didn’t get nervous it would mean I’d stopped caring. I bet you were nervous about our interview.”

“Of course.”

“Me too. But this, right now, is the most nervous I’ve been for years.”

Just then, the waitress slid a towering burger in front of him and a milkshake topped with whipped cream and sprinkles in front of me.

“So,” he said. “No handlers tonight.”

“That means I can ask you whatever I want.”

“Right. But, uh, before that, I’d like to interview you," he said, his voice low and steady, yet commanding. My breath caught, a hitch that felt like a tiny gasp for air. The power dynamic shifted palpably, sending a thrill down my spine. I nodded, a small gesture of surrender, letting him take the reins.

“Me? I’m not interesting enough to interview.”

“I disagree.”

“I bet you can’t ask a single question which would give a juicy reply.”

Demian leaned in, his forearms pressing against the sticky table surface. His muscles flexed slightly, a subtle display of strength that made my heart race. His gaze was intense, piercing, like he was looking straight through me. "Tilly," he began, his tone soft yet firm, "are you a Little?"