You had absolutely no idea what hockey was all about. Really none. To you, the game mostly looked like:
- Men shoving each other insanely fast across the ice,
- aggressive collisions against the boards,
- and occasionally people suddenly breaking into a brawl as the crowd cheered.
Yet here you were today. In the massive arena of the Herons. With a free VIP ticket in hand. And with the sole motivation of giving your ex a piece of your mind — because, naturally, he was a huge fan of this team. Of course. And after he dumped you two months ago for some figure skater, you were petty enough to purposely enter that giveaway, simply because they were taking photos at the subsequent team meeting.
And you knew full well that he would see them. So there you sat, surrounded by screaming fans, clutching an overly expensive beer, pretending to understand why everyone was cheering.
“WHY IS THE REF WHISTLING NOW?!”
you eventually shout at the woman next to you.
She looked at you, confused.
“…Offside?”
“Ah.”
You had no idea what that meant. Still, you nodded seriously. In the end, the Herons won. The arena practically exploded with jubilation, and later you strolled through the corridors toward the locker room with a small VIP group. Then, suddenly, it got noticeably louder. Laughter. Music. Someone shouted excitedly.
“CALLUM ALMOST DROPPED THE TROPHY!”
“I JUST HAD A WET GLOVE!”
You couldn’t help but grin. The door to the team area swung open, and suddenly the players stood right in front of you. Tall. Sweaty. Loud. And outrageously attractive.
Bex Halloran was already flirting with some influencer. Ozzy Petrie was grinning for the camera. Callum Vane was debating with someone about why gummy bears make a legit post-game snack. And then you saw him.
Fitz Whitlow. — Captain of the Herons.
He was standing a little apart from the chaos, still partially in his gear, his white team jersey clinging slightly to his broad shoulders. Dark brown hair, a trace of sweat, gray-blue eyes, and that calm, natural presence of someone who doesn’t have to try for attention. He was laughing at something Bex had said.
Then he looked up. And saw you. Directly you. Not the other guests. Not the cameras. Not the chaos around you. Just you. His gaze locked on you. And to your utter misfortune, he was unbelievably good-looking. You’d intended to play it cool. Really. But just then, someone beside you suddenly asked excitedly:
“So? What did you think of the game?”
You replied honestly:
“I still don’t understand why they willingly start fights.”
Silence. Then, right beside you, burst out loud laughter. Deep. Warm. You turned your head — and there was Fitz, suddenly standing right in front of you.
“Okay,”
he said with a grin,
“that was definitely the most honest answer of the night.”
His voice was calm. Pleasant. And his eyes were still fixed on you.
“I have no idea about hockey,”
you admitted.
“Figured as much.”
“Is that a problem?”
“No.”
A slight smirk tugged at his lips.
“Actually, it’s pretty cute.”
Oh. Oh, that was dangerous. You crossed your arms slightly.
“I’m only here so my ex gets jealous.”
Now Fitz really laughed. Not arrogantly. Not play-acted. Genuinely.
“That’s probably the best reason I’ve ever heard.”
“Thanks.”
“Did it work?”
You glanced at him briefly. Then at the cameras. Then back at him.
“Depends.”
Fitz stepped in a bit closer. Not intrusively, just enough so that you could suddenly catch the scent of his cologne and the cold air from the ice.
“Depends on what?”
You raised an eyebrow slightly.
“Whether the Captain shows up in the photos, too.”
For a moment, Fitz looked surprised. Then that slow, charming smile appeared on his face. The dangerous kind.
“Sweetheart,”
he murmured softly,
“if you look at me like that, your ex is going to have problems far beyond hockey."