Page 20

DECLAN

“ L adies and gentlemen, please welcome back to the ice... your Sugar City Nighthawks!”

The roar of the crowd hits me like a physical force as we skate out for warm-ups. It’s louder than usual—a week after my press conference ultimatum, and my first game back since management caved and agreed to fund a series of initiatives against online harassment. Tonight feels different. Electric.

I scan the stands as I circle the ice, my eyes immediately finding Victoria in the friends and family section. She’s seated between Natalie and Briar Knightley, whose article about us went viral three days ago. Still can’t believe the headline: “More Than a Game: How One Hockey Player Chose Love Over the Ice—And Changed the Sport.” Bit dramatic, but Victoria loved it, so I do too.

She catches my eye and waves, looking gorgeous in a Nighthawks jersey with my number on it. Seeing my name and number on her still gives me a ridiculous thrill. She’s wearing the proper engagement ring now too—we picked it out together two days ago, a vintage-style emerald surrounded by tiny diamonds. Much better than Teagan’s hair tie, though I’m pretty sure the kid plans to frame it as a memento.

“Focus, lover boy,” Luc says, nudging me as he skates past. “Plenty of time to moon over your fiancée after we win.”

“Fiancée,” I repeat, grinning like an idiot. “Still sounds unreal.”

“Get used to it,” Luc says with a knowing smile. “Soon it’ll be ‘wife.’”

The thought sends a jolt of happiness through me so intense, I almost miss the puck Emile slides my way. “Wife,” I mutter, catching it just in time. “That sounds even better.” I hit the puck toward the net where Callum waits, focused and ready as always.

He stops my shot easily, then flips the puck back out with his blocker. As I turn to retrieve it, I notice something odd. Callum’s normally laser-focused gaze has drifted up to the stands. Following his line of sight, I realize he’s looking right at Victoria’s section.

Or more specifically, at Briar Knightley.

Interesting . In all the years I’ve known him, I’ve never seen Callum Sinclair distracted during warm-ups. Not even that time when a fan somehow smuggled in an entire mariachi band. Our normally unshakable goaltender maintains iron concentration through anything—until now.

I collect the puck and circle back, curious about our Callum’s sudden interest in the stands. When I reach the net again, I casually ask, “Good crowd tonight, huh?”

He grunts noncommittally, eyes back on the ice where they belong. But a minute later, when he thinks no one’s watching, his gaze drifts upward again.

Warm-ups end, and we head to the locker room for final preparations. I’m adjusting my pads when Callum appears beside me, unusually fidgety for a man normally as still as a statue before games.

“That woman with Victoria,” he says quietly, surprising me. Callum rarely initiates conversation, especially right before a game. “The one with the red hair and glasses. Who is she?”

I try to keep my expression neutral despite my shock. “Briar Knightley. She did the feature on Victoria and me.”

“I know what she wrote,” he says, a slight edge to his voice. “I meant who is she to Victoria? Are they friends now?”

OK… this is definitely not normal pre-game Callum behavior. I study him for a moment, noting the faint color in his usually pale cheeks.

“They hit it off during the interview,” I explain carefully. “Victoria invited her to tonight’s game. Pretty sure they’re becoming friends.” I pause, then add, “Briar’s a big Nighthawks fan. Season ticket holder for years, apparently. She’s at every home game. Usually sits in the same spot, section 119. Always wearing that blue and silver scarf.”

Callum nods, absorbing this information with unusual intensity. “She’s the poetry woman.”

Now it’s my turn to be surprised. “You know her?”

“Not personally,” he says quickly. Too quickly. “I’ve just... noticed her, um…blog. She knows what she’s talking about, unlike most of these so-called fans.”

I’m about to press further when Coach calls us together for final instructions. But throughout his pep talk, I can’t help stealing glances at our normally impassive goalie. There’s definitely something there—a tension, an alertness that I’ve never seen in him before.

When we take the ice for the national anthem, I notice Callum’s eyes drift up to the stands again, finding Briar with unerring accuracy despite the sea of faces. She’s easy to spot, I suppose—that wild auburn hair and the ever-present scarf, plus she’s gesturing enthusiastically while explaining something to Victoria.

The game itself is a blur of speed and intensity. The Rockets always bring out our best, and tonight is no exception. Callum is a wall in net, making save after impossible save, playing even better than his usual stellar performance. By the third period, we’re up 3-1, and the crowd is electric.

During a TV timeout, I skate over to the bench for water. Victoria catches my eye and gives me a thumbs up, then points to Briar beside her, who’s scribbling furiously in a notebook while talking a mile a minute. Appears she’s giving Victoria a real-time analysis of the game. My fiancée—god, I love that word—looks both amused and impressed.

In the final minutes, the Rockets pull their goalie for an extra attacker, throwing everything they have at us in a desperate attempt to tie the game. There’s a frantic scramble in front of our net, bodies colliding as the Rockets’ forwards crash the crease.

Their star center winds up for what looks like a guaranteed goal… Until Callum launches across the crease in a move that defies physics, snagging the puck in his glove with mere milliseconds to spare.

The horn sounds moments later, the crowd erupts, and my teammates mob Callum in celebration. As we’re skating back to center ice after the pile-up, I notice our normally stone-faced goaltender looking up at the stands, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

Following his gaze, I see Briar on her feet, arms raised in a victory pose, her scarf waving like a banner. She’s shouting something that looks suspiciously like, “That’s how you tend goal, Sinclair!” Her genuine excitement is endearing—not the polite applause of someone just there to support a friend, but the unrestrained joy of a true fan.

In the locker room after the game, reporters crowd around, asking about my return to the ice, the team’s statement against online harassment, and of course, my now-public proposal to Victoria. I answer their questions easily, feeling lighter than I have in weeks.

“Your fiancée seems to be enjoying the hockey wife life already,” one reporter comments. “She and Briar Knightley were quite the animated pair in the stands.”

I laugh. “Victoria’s a quick study. Pretty sure Briar was giving her a master class in hockey analysis. That woman knows her stats better than most of our coaching staff.”

Across the room, I notice Callum pause in removing his gear, clearly listening despite pretending not to.

When the media finally clears out, I shower and change, eager to meet Victoria. As I’m packing up my bag, Callum appears beside me again, helmet tucked under his arm, his dark hair damp with sweat.

“Is she coming to the after-party?” he asks without preamble.

“Victoria? Of course?—”

“Briar Knightley,” he clarifies, voice low enough that teammates can’t hear. “Is Victoria bringing her to Luc’s place?”

I study him, fascinated. Callum Sinclair, our sphinx-like goaltender who barely socializes with teammates, is asking about a woman. Unprecedented territory.

“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “But I could find out. Or better yet, I could introduce you when we meet them upstairs.”

For a second I think he might refuse, retreat back into his usual reserve. But then he gives a short nod. “That would be... acceptable.”

I hide my smile as I wait for him to change so we can head out together. “Just so I’m prepared—are you interested in her hockey knowledge, her writing skills, or something else entirely?”

Callum shoots me a look that would freeze most men in their tracks. “I admire her analysis of the game. She understands the nuances of goaltending better than most broadcasters.”

“Right. Just her hockey brain. Nothing to do with those big green eyes or that great set of…” He shoots me another look that’s filled with daggers, so I shift gears and finish with, “teeth. A nice smile.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t deny any of it, which tells me everything I need to know.

We find Victoria and Briar waiting in the concourse, deep in conversation. Victoria’s face lights up when she sees me, and I still can’t believe that smile is for me, that I get to go home with her tonight and every night.

“There’s my hero,” she says, rising on tiptoes to kiss me. “Great game. Though Briar tells me you had too many giveaways in the neutral zone, whatever that means.”

Briar looks momentarily mortified. “I wasn’t criticizing—I just?—”

“She’s right,” Callum says, stepping forward. “O’Rielly’s puck handling at the blue line was sloppy tonight.”

I bite back a laugh as Briar freezes, her eyes going wide behind her glasses as she realizes Callum Sinclair is standing right there. For someone usually so articulate, she seems suddenly at a loss for words.

“Callum Sinclair,” she finally manages, her voice higher than normal. “That glove save in the second period was absolute poetry. The way you tracked that deflection off Barrett’s stick. It defied physics.”

Now it’s Callum’s turn to look startled. Most fans compliment his big flashy saves, not the subtle technical ones that only true students of the game appreciate.

“You noticed that?” he asks, genuine surprise in his voice.

“I notice everything about goaltending,” she replies, her cheeks flushing slightly. “It’s the most underappreciated position in hockey. The artistry of it, the mental discipline required... I’ve been following your career since your days with the Granite City Fury. Your technique has evolved beautifully.”

I exchange a meaningful glance with Victoria, who’s watching this exchange with the same fascination I feel.

“Victoria,” I say, wrapping an arm around her waist, “we should head to Luc’s place. The team’s waiting.”

“Right,” she agrees, catching on immediately. “Briar, are you coming to the party too? Callum could give you a ride. I’m sure you have a million questions about goaltending that he’d be happy to answer.”

Callum shoots us a look that promises retribution, but I notice he doesn’t object.

“Oh, I couldn’t impose,” Briar says, adjusting her glasses nervously. “I’m sure Mr. Sinclair?—”

“Callum,” he corrects firmly. “And it’s no imposition. My car’s in the player lot.”

Briar blinks rapidly, clearly thrown off balance. “Well, if you’re sure...”

“I am.” The certainty in his voice seems to surprise even him.

“Then... I’d love to. Thank you.”

As Victoria and I walk away, leaving them to work out the details, she squeezes my hand. “Did you plan that?” she whispers.

“Not even a little,” I admit. “But I think we just witnessed something interesting beginning.”

“I’ve never seen Briar flustered before,” Victoria says. “She’s usually so confident and articulate. And the way Callum was looking at her...”

“Like she was speaking a language only he understands,” I finish, drawing Victoria closer. “I recognize that look. It’s how I’ve been looking at you since the first day you walked into that rink.”

“Pretty sure that look was pure lust,” she says, poking me in the ribs, “but I’ll take the revised romantic version.”

I laugh, kissing the top of her head. “It was both. Still is.”

As we reach the exit, I can’t resist glancing back. Callum and Briar are still standing where we left them, seemingly oblivious to the arena staff cleaning up around them, to the remaining fans filing out, to everything except each other. They’re both gesturing now, clearly deep in a conversation about something that matters to them both.

“Twenty bucks says they don’t make it to the party,” Victoria says, following my gaze.

“No bet,” I reply. “But I would bet that we’re looking at the next Nighthawks romance.”

Victoria leans her head against my shoulder as we step into the cool night air. “Poor Briar has no idea what she’s in for. Hockey players are nothing but trouble.”

“The absolute worst,” I agree, pulling her close for a kiss. “Especially the ones who fall hard and fast and refuse to take no for an answer.”

“Especially those,” she murmurs against my lips. “My absolute favorite kind of trouble.”

As we walk toward my car, hands linked, my ring glinting on her finger, I feel a sense of completion I never imagined possible. I found something better than hockey, better than winning, better than anything I’d ever known before—I found Victoria.

And something tells me Callum Sinclair might be on the verge of his own discovery. Poor bastard doesn’t stand a chance.