Page 55
forty-seven
MIRA
The arena buzzes with anticipation as Isla, Lexi, and I walk in. Eyes turn our way when they notice our playoff jackets, and I squirm. Everyone knows Lexi and Isla are with Rogues players, but me? That wasn’t public knowledge. Until now.
Hell, I tried to fight the girls on giving me a jacket, but once the other WAGS heard through the locker room grapevine and their significant others that Griffin and I are married, they wouldn’t hear it.
It didn’t matter to them that things between Griffin and me are still up in the air.
I’m his wife, and that’s all they needed to know.
The black faux leather jackets are emblazoned with the bejeweled names and numbers of our partners.
Isla wears an 84 with Graves on the back, Lexi wears a 13 with Hanson on the back, and I’m wearing 16 with Wright on the back.
I try to ignore the whispers and speculation, but it has my hackles up.
I’d probably enjoy showing off his name on my back if things had gone according to plan before everything went down in Michigan.
If we’d announced our marriage to excited family and friends, instead of having to explain to them why we’re…
Well, I’m not even sure what we are. We’re not broken up, but we’re not entirely together, either.
It’s all way too complicated, and I feel the weight of that tonight more than ever.
“Come on. Let’s get to the box and order some drinks. I’m going to need at least two.” Isla grabs my hand and drags me behind her. “This is so stressful, and I’m not even the one playing.”
Lexi nods. “Seriously. This is almost as bad as when everything went down with my dad.” Lexi’s dad had been the head coach of the Rogues for years before finding out she was secretly dating the rookie, Ryder Hanson.
He almost started a fight with Ryder in the middle of the game, and when Lexi ran through the seats to get to the bench, she heard her dad say some incredibly hurtful things no woman should have to hear from her father.
Needless to say, he’s not the coach anymore.
“I just want everyone to stop looking at me,” I mutter. Both women chuckle at that.
“You’ll get used to it.” Isla squeezes my hand. “Sort of.”
I don’t think so. I’m used to being mostly invisible as Maddox’s little sister.
This—walking around with Griffin’s last name sparkling like a beacon for all to see on my back in a playoff jacket that makes it very clear I’m with him—is not something I can imagine getting used to.
I feel exposed and vulnerable. And the weight of his last name, knowing how much he wants me to take it for my own, is doubly heavy.
At least the box is full of family, so I can relax. We’re still visible up here, but there are walls between us and the rest of the fans. Walls I need right now.
We say our hellos to the other wives and girlfriends, as well as a few cute kids and a handful of parents, order some drinks, and settle into our seats.
We arrived early enough that the warm-ups haven’t started yet, and the televisions in the box are tuned into a sports channel where analysts offer commentary, speculation, and banter back and forth.
I can’t stop bouncing my knee.
Griffin and I spent every night during their final away series of the regular season talking and video chatting. We didn’t have any sexy times over the phone, but we did fall asleep together. Every morning, I’d wake up to the sound of his soft breathing or a sleepy hello.
I’m still doing therapy twice a week, and even though I have a long way to go, I do feel like I’m getting a handle on my issues.
Talking to someone who can help me analyze why I react to certain things the way I do has already brought me a deeper level of self-understanding.
Griffin was so proud of me when I told him I’ve been going.
Staying away from him is getting harder and harder, and I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be able to last, even though I’m determined to be in a better place before telling him I’m ready to give this thing between us a real shot.
Because the only thing I know with absolute certainty after my time away from Griffin is that I don’t want to be apart from him for much longer.
“Hey.” Lexi bumps her shoulder against mine. “You okay? You seem a little lost in your head.”
“I’m good,” I tell her. “Just a lot on my mind.”
Isla squeezes my hand from my other side. “We know. How have things been between the two of you since they got back from Colorado?”
“Well, it’s not like we’ve had much time together. They spent all week going over film and practicing.” This week leading up to the first quarterfinal game has been busy for the players. “But we went out to dinner together.”
It was the first time we’ve been on a date since everything went south.
We went to a quiet little restaurant and sat next to each other.
He held my hand or stroked my knee the entire time before kissing me gently and taking me home.
Part of me—the very lonely, very horny part of me—wanted to yell at him when he didn’t try to take things further.
But another part of me knew he was holding back because it’s what I wanted.
He’s still protecting me and putting me first.
“He really loves you,” Isla says softly.
“I know. And I really love him, but I need to make sure I’m in a place where I can love him the way he deserves.” Staring at the ice, I sag into my chair. “I just hope he doesn’t give up on me in the meantime.”
Both women smile and Lexi says, “No chance of that happening. You’ll see.”
Before I can respond with how much I hope that’s true, the voice of the announcer rings out over the music playing in the arena, and my eyes go to the ice.
“Good evening, Rogues fans!” the voice booms through the cavernous space, vibrating through my chest. “Welcome to game one of the Western Conference Quarterfinals. Get ready to make some noise and welcome your Minnesota Rogues as they go up against the St. Louis Steam.”
The crowd boos as the announcer names the head and assistant coaches of the opposing team and their players skate onto the ice for pregame warm-ups in a flurry of red and blue.
“And now, please welcome your Minnesota Rogues!”
If the volume level during the boos was loud, it has nothing on the cheers of the fans as they welcome the third and second lines, the players in their yellow and gray flying over the ice like conquering heroes.
My heart begins to roar as the announcer’s voice grows louder, winding up to introduce the individual names of the starting line.
“From the Rogues, starting on right wing, number twenty-seven, Logan Byrne!” The crowd cheers as Logan steps onto the ice, stick raised in his hand. He heads for the Rogues’ goal and the pile of pucks waiting there for them.
I’m leaning forward in my seat, because the announcements always follow the same pattern. The offensive wingers, defense, the center, then the goalie. Which Means Griffin is next.
“Starting on left wing, we have an interesting change tonight.”
I glance at Lexi and Isla, confused. There was a lineup change? Where’s Griffin?
“Just breathe,” Isla says, smiling. She pats my hand like she’s not worried. Like the announcer calling out an interesting change during such a vital game isn’t terrifying. Maddox swore he and Griffin had worked things out. He promised he would put him back on the first line.
“With the same number and tenacious playing as always, on left wing, number sixteen, Griffin Graves. That’s right, folks, don’t be confused when you see two jerseys with Graves stitched on their backs tonight.
I’m told it’s not a mistake.” The announcer chuckles, but I don’t even hear it.
I don’t hear anything else the man says, nor do I notice the roars and confused shouts of the crowd.
All these months, Griffin has been saying he’d change his name if I didn’t want to. I thought he was kidding, that it was a silly flirtation.
“He changed the name on his jersey,” I say to no one in particular. “He’s wearing my last name.”
Lexi clasps her hands over her heart and squeals. “Oh my god, I can’t believe he did that. Iconic.”
That’s one word for it. Insane is another. So is romantic and touching and utterly, undeniably Griffin.
“He loves you so much,” Isla says, leaning close.
We both watch as Griffin takes a lap before stopping directly in the family box’s line of sight with his back to us.
He looks at me over his shoulder with sparkling eyes and a grin that transforms his face into something so beautiful it hurts to look at.
He does a little shimmy with his ass, turns to stare right at me, and makes a heart with his hands.
“Oh my god.” I’m pretty sure my mouth is hanging open, which is just great, because I swear every person in the arena cranes their neck to look at me.
I’m about to combust into flames right here in the box.
But it’s not only the embarrassment of being the center of attention; it’s the way this public declaration of his love has melted away any last vestiges of the worry that Griffin could one day leave me the way my dad did.
Intellectually, I’ve always known Griffin is nothing like my dad.
But fear and decades-old trauma aren’t things that exist in an intellectual space.
They’re roots of decay and deeply ingrained protective instincts that can be self-destructive, but they spread so deep, become so pervasive, that it takes an act of god to root them out and burn them away.
Or an act of love so loud and powerful, so selfless and pointed, that it pulses light and life through every deep vein of rot until there’s nothing left of the beliefs that had been so omnipresent and damaging for so long.
This isn’t the first time Griffin has shown his love in a public way, and I doubt it will be the last. But the fact that he did this when things are up in the air between us and I could still reject him?
This is Griffin making himself vulnerable in front of thousands, if not millions of people.
This is his way of telling me I’m more important than his reputation or pride, that he’ll fight for me even when the outcome isn’t assured.
Griffin’s gesture has decimated one of my fears and shed a glaring light on the other. Because now, more than ever, I worry that I’m not good enough for Griffin Wright. I’m no longer worried that he’ll hurt me, but I’m doubly worried I’ll end up hurting him.
I’ve been retreating ever since our trip, letting my fears and insecurities dictate my future, when Griffin has been out here fighting for me with no promise of success.
He’s fought against my doubts, my brother’s doubts, and his own deep-seated fear that no one will ever love him and choose him the way he longs to be chosen and loved.
It’s time I stopped retreating. I’m not sure I will ever completely banish the whispering worry that I’ll be left alone one day. But I’d guess Griffin feels the same, and he still shows up, day after day, to fight for me.
Griffin Wright deserves someone to go to battle for him.
He deserves someone to put him first, push past their insecurities, and be a warm, safe place for him to rest. I’m determined to be that person.
No matter what it takes, I’m going to fight like hell to be good enough for Griffin.
Maybe I’m not there yet, but I will never stop striving to become the woman he deserves.
I’m going to fight for him every bit as hard as he’s been fighting for me.
I wish I could run to him right now. I wish I could tell him how much I love him. That I may need a bit more time to work through some of my issues, but I’m all in. I just hope that, on some level, he can feel my love from here.
I can’t take my eyes off him as the rest of the team skates onto the ice and they begin their warm-ups. My eyes ping between his face and the name stitched in gray on the back of his jersey. My name. I’m up here wearing his, he’s down there wearing mine, and my heart is forever branded Griffin’s .
Table of Contents
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