Page 31

Gabby

M aeve just left her box suite seat, and no one is whispering behind her back. They never do, but it never fails to surprise me. I somehow always expect it, because it’s a reflex I can’t shake, a souvenir from the world I’ve recently left in the rear-view mirror.

I glance around the plush room where the Bucks are steamrolling Philly, and for a second, I’m caught off guard by a rush of warmth.

And no, it’s not just the two glasses of champagne talking.

It’s something deeper. Something real. I’m a million miles from the chaos I’ve lived in for the past year, and even though I’m completely out of my element here, where I’m not floating in this world of designer bags and subtle power plays… I don’t feel out of place. Not really.

I scan the ice and my eyes find him. Roman.

And just like that, the heat inside me spikes, pooling low in my belly.

God, I’ve got it bad. For that player.

The one with a reputation for hockey brawls and bedroom escapades.

But for the past three and a half months—wait, three and a half months?

—he’s been mine. Only mine. No puck bunnies.

No late-night scandals. No grainy paparazzi shots of him with two women and a smirk.

Just Roman and me. At home. We’ve slipped into this quiet rhythm that feels so damn domestic it almost scares me.

Dinners we actually cook ourselves, lazy Sundays with books and bad TV, and video calls when he’s on the road.

It’s… nice. Comforting. But now that playoffs are well under way, I barely see him.

I keep telling myself it’s because he’s focused.

Dialed in. Not because he’s restless. Not because he misses the high of his old life.

Right?

God. Please let that be right.

A knot of unease starts to tighten in my stomach, and I force it down.

But the truth is, we haven’t exactly been diving deep.

We’re great behind closed doors, skin to skin, tangled in sheets and laughter.

But we don’t talk. Not about the big stuff.

Not about Cass or the fact that he's still publicly claiming I’m dealing with a family emergency, that the wedding’s just postponed—not called off.

Does Roman think that’s the case too? He’s not brought it up, neither have the WAGs, but they must all be wondering.

And then there’s Theo.

God, Theo.

That run-in at The Nook was ugly. I didn’t tell Roman. What would be the point? Theo’s halfway out the door anyway, getting traded soon, and rumor has it half the team can’t stand him. But that one word still echoes.

Convenient.

Someone warm to come home to while he chased bunnies on the road. And when I turned red, ready to tell him exactly where he could shove that misogynistic trash, he hit on me.

Hit on me.

Honestly, if Roman knew, there’d be trouble.

That’s the last thing this team needs right now.

And the last thing I need is to be the reason Roman gets distracted or worse, thrown off his game.

But still… I can’t un-hear it. Can’t un-feel the way it rattled me.

Because what if Theo wasn’t just being an asshole?

What if he was telling the truth? Because… convenient.

That was my word.

The one I used when Roman tried to label whatever this is between us. Out of every possible word he could’ve latched onto, Theo somehow landed on the exact same one I whispered.

I don’t believe for a second that Roman’s blabbing in the locker room, airing out our private moments like dirty laundry.

That’s not him. And cheating? No. I won’t go there.

Roman calls me every night—every single one.

We talk. We laugh. We fall asleep to the sound of each other’s voices.

If he were out with the bunnies, how would he even have the time? So no, I don’t believe it.

But even lies, when delivered with just the right amount of venom, can find the cracks. And Theo somehow knew exactly where to strike.

Still, it’s stupid. Roman and I aren’t together.

Not really. We’re not supposed to be jealous or possessive or hurt by hypotheticals.

We shouldn’t be having sleepovers that turn into routines, or lazy Sunday mornings that turn into rituals.

We definitely shouldn’t be doing things like kissing goodbye in the morning or falling asleep wrapped around each other like itmeans more.

Because it doesn’t… right?

Aren’t you already doing all those things, girlfriend? It’s true, we are, which begs the question: What the hell do you want?

A sudden eruption of cheers snaps me out of my spiral. The crowd goes wild as Brady pulls off a jaw-dropping save. Melanie’s jumping like we just won the cup, and Maeve comes rushing back in, hair flying.

“What’d I miss?” she pants.

“Brady made a great save.” Brighton grins, throwing an arm around Melanie in a congratulatory hug.

Maeve flops into the seat beside me with a groan. “Why does my bladder always betray me at the worst possible time?”

“Don’t even start with me about bladders,” Gina says, rolling her eyes. “Grant was born two months ago and I’m still leaking like a faucet.”

That gets a round of laughs, and I manage a smile as I listen. I’ve picked up on the little things, like how Ash and Gina named their baby after his father, Grant. How Maeve and Tanner’s daughter is named Stella, after his mom. It’s sweet. It’s sentimental. It’s something…something I’d want.

Without warning, I picture Roman and me.

Having a baby. Would we name the child after my side of the family or his?

Probably mine, since he never talks about his, except for Nolan.

Which once again reminds me that while we’re doing a lot of things that make me think we could have a future, we’re still not deep diving into our past, the things that make us who we are—the things that turned him into a man who doesn’t do relationships.

Ugh.

Get out of your head, Gabby.

The conversation drifts to baby names and birth plans and what it feels like to grow a human inside you, and I just… listen. It’s not my world. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But God, the ache that stirs in my chest is real. I’ve always wanted kids. I thought by now I’d be pregnant with Cass’s baby.

Thank God I’m not.

“How are you feeling, Taylor?” Gina asks.

Taylor rests a hand on her growing bump. “I’m going to look like a beluga whale in my wedding dress this summer,” she groans.

Everyone bursts into laughter, then floods her with comfort and compliments, and all I can think about is herwedding. The one at the Hart Hotel. The one where I ran away from Cass, and swore I’d never step inside again. Will Roman go alone, or will he bring a plus one that isn’t me?

God, why am I so deep in my head tonight?

I force my attention back to the game. The final minutes are tense, the score locked at three to one. Everyone’s eyes are glued to the action. And when the buzzer sounds, this time we all erupt like we’ve just won the championship. Hugs, cheers, clinking glasses.

For a brief, shining moment, all that heavy crap I was carrying lifts. Until Melanie, sweet, observant, trained Melanie, rests a hand on my shoulder. And just like that, the unease returns.

She’s the therapist of the group. And right now, all I can think is— God, I hope she can’t read minds.

She’s beaming when I turn to her, and honestly, she has every reason to.

Her husband just made some game-saving stops that lit the arena on fire.

“Are you coming to Kilting Around for a drink?” Melanie asks, her smile open, genuine.

There’s no pressure in her voice, just that easy camaraderie that makes you feel included—wanted.

But… Kilting Around .

The team’s go-to bar. Ground zero for post-game debauchery.

The kind of place where puck bunnies prowl and Instagram stories never die.

I’ve been steering clear, but because of that, I’ve kept Roman out of the spotlight, out of reach of the world that used to orbit him.

I’ve tucked him away like a secret, hidden in his own life. And that’s not fair. Not to him.

“Yes, I think we will,” I say, forcing a bright smile even as my stomach knots itself into a pretzel.

Melanie watches me for a beat, something flickering in her eyes. Then she softens. “Hey, you don’t haveto go if you’re not comfortable, Gabby. I wasn’t pressuring you.”

She doesn’t know the full story. Doesn’t know I’ve been laying low in Roman’s apartment like a fugitive, trying to avoid Cass, the press, and the avalanche of my old life.

But she does know I ran out on a wedding like something out of a rom-com gone sideways.

And she’s perceptive enough to know I’m still picking up the pieces.

That I’m floating in limbo, a woman with a degree in fashion design who isn’t following her dreams. But she doesn’t push.

“I think it’ll be fun,” I tell her, meaning it more than I expected. “I’m also going to try to make it to book club next week.”

Her eyes light up. “Really? That’s amazing. It’s actually at my place this time.”

I’ve wanted to go. But between Maeve needing a hand with Stella, my designs and sewing, and Roman... there just hasn’t been time. Or maybe I haven’t made it.

But the thought of time, that’s what rattles me.

How much time do I really have here?

I haven’t called anyone in the fashion world back. Haven’t even tried. Call it cowardice. Call it confusion. All I know is, no one from that life knows what to do with me unless I’m walking back into Cass’s arms and resuming my perfectly curated existence.

Is that what Roman is waiting for…the reason we’re not delving deeper? Or is it something else, something that has nothing to do with me and everything to do with him.