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FORTY-ONE

LENNOX

“Sorry, WAGs coming through,” I sing as I shimmy my shoulders, practically dragging Sara through the arena.

She apologizes to each person I push past. I’m obnoxiously excited. It’s my first game as Aiden Langfield’s side piece—I’m testing out different titles; I suppose that one doesn’t work—and it’s the first time I’m wearing his Boston Bolts jersey. I’ve heard all about the magical things that happen to women when they wear these things—orgasms on desks, sex on pianos—I can’t wait to see what the orgasmic jersey fairy will grant me.

Sara tugs on my arm. “Lennox, slow down.”

I practically growl in my pursuit of getting to the ice. The team traveled to New York last night, so Aiden and I spent the night apart. I haven’t seen him in twenty-four hours, and I haven’t had an orgasm in like twenty-four and a half hours. Your girl is hagitated.

Since Gavin and Millie’s wedding, Aiden and I have barely gone a night without fucking. Most of the time, more than once.

Practicing, training, studying, and all the other ings he has to participate in have kept him busy, but the man still has the stamina to fiddle my skittle every night.

Except for last night, of course. And it’s been a shock to my system.

The guys are finishing warm-ups when we find our seats. I haven’t even settled in, though, before Aiden is banging on the glass. It’s like he’s got a tracker on me. The mere idea of something so psychotic has my blood heating and my skin flushing.

Clearly, I’m sick in the head.

I tease him by acting nonchalant. As if I have no idea why he’s so excited about what I’m wearing. I love him like this. The unhinged puppy.

Sara laughs as we make our way to the seats Gavin scored us. “You’re evil.”

I shrug. “No idea what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t.” She lets it go, though, because she’s working today and has to focus on the game and the goings-on both off and on the ice so she can anticipate what questions the media will ask, prepare the players, and intercept if necessary.

Though once we’re settled, she turns to me, and suddenly, it feels like she’s the media. I can practically see the list of questions spinning through her mind. “Excited to be back in New York?”

Humming, I survey the ice and the guys getting ready to play. “It’s not that different from Boston, to be honest.”

In my periphery, Sara is watching me. “So you don’t miss it?”

I take a moment to reflect on the time I spent living here. By myself. Going from job to job, man to man, friend to friend.

My life in New York was the opposite of consistent. Before I moved back to Boston, I would have sworn that was the dream. I didn’t owe anything to anyone, and that meant I was free to do whatever I wanted.

What I didn’t allow myself to see was that in return, I was owed nothing from anyone, leaving me living a sad sort of existence.

Since I returned to Boston, I’ve created routines. Sunday brunch with the girls, coffee dates with Millie, movie binging sessions with Sara. Genuine friends who want to see me, who care about me and expect me to be there for them too. I love it.

And that says nothing of the time spent with Aiden. He brings me coffee in bed every morning—with whipped cream swirled on top. He understands and shares my love for everything sweet. We learn TikTok dances together, then force his teammates to do them. We ride bikes in the gym after practice, just so we can talk. Twice a week, we attend couples’ dance classes at the studio we found for his fake wedding.

My life is full and busy and bright.

I look back at my friend and answer honestly. “No, I don’t miss it at all.”

Sara hums. “You’ve been in Boston for seven months.” Though it’s a statement, it feels a lot like a question.

“Okay?”

Her eyes dance. “You never stay in one place longer than six.”

The buzzer sounds, announcing the game is going to begin, and we shift our focus to the ice. But her words keep playing in my head, even after the puck has dropped.