13. Sara

SARA

"Calvin, do you have a minute?" I ask, approaching the veteran defenseman when he steps off the ice after his warm up. "I was hoping to get a quick interview for the team's social media."

Calvin grins as he takes off his helmet. "For you, Sara? Always."

I smile, getting the cellphone out of my purse that I was given specifically for social media purposes. It has a Nighthawks case on it and whoever set it up also made the wallpaper Nighthawks themed. I kinda love it. "OK. I'm just pulling the camera up…And recording in three…two…one... Calvin Barrett. You've been with the Nighthawks for six seasons now. What's your take on the team's spirit this year compared to previous seasons?"

He wipes his forehead with a towel, leaning against the sideboards as he thinks over my question. "I'd say there's a different energy this year, y'know? A sort of hunger I haven't seen since my early years. It's been a while since we've had the Stanley Cup in our sights, and this year it really feels like a possibility. Especially with the rookie—DuPont—and our captain—Bouchard—working the frontline the way they do."

"They make quite the dynamic duo, don't they?" I ask, a smile curving my lips as I think about Emile and glance over at where he's still warming up on the ice. "But you're down one for today's game. How's everyone feeling going into this without Luc Bouchard, who's out injured?"

"Well, we're all a bit on edge, no doubt," Calvin admits, running his fingers through his sweaty blonde hair. "Luc's an incredible leader on and off the ice. It's not ideal to be without him. But here's the thing, Sara." He leans in closer to the camera. "We're not a one-man team. Sure, Luc's our captain, and we feel his absence. But every guy on this roster has the talent to step up when it's needed, and that's what we plan to..."

Calvin's eyes widen as his train of thought derails. I follow his gaze to a striking woman walking past with a Fury logo on her jacket walking past. She's all curves and red hair and carries a clipboard in her hands while walking with a purposeful stride. She's clearly a member of the rival team's staff. Interesting.

"Uh, Calvin?" I prompt, trying to hide my amusement.

He blinks, shaking his head as if to clear it. "Sorry, what was I saying?"

I stifle a laugh, holding the microphone closer to him. "You were saying how your team intends to step up in Luc's absence."

"Right," he replies, grinning bashfully. "We're going to give it our all out there today. That's the Nighthawk spirit." He trails off again as the woman disappears around the corner, his eyes lingering. I end the recording and pocket my cell and the little remote microphone.

"Friend of yours?"

Calvin's face brightens as he rubs the back of his neck. "Ahh. Yeah, maybe. I don't know. But hey, you can't blame a guy for appreciating a bit of beauty in the midst of all this testosterone."

Just as he finishes his sentence, Emile skates up to us and leans on the boards, pulling off his helmet to reveal his tousled dark hair. His eyes flicker between us, a playful smile touching his lips. "What's going on here, old man? You get yourself a full game off the bench and you're already monopolizing my girl's attention?"

Calvin chuckles. "Just giving Sara here some high-quality interview content is all."

Emile's gaze meets mine and softens with affection. "As long as I get to monopolize her attention for a bit. I need a sprinkle of good luck before we start the game."

I laugh, blushing slightly because I'm not used to being some hot player's good luck charm. "And just how do you suppose you'll get this sprinkle of good luck?"

"Well, traditionally"—he speaks with a cheeky grin—"it involves a kiss."

Calvin groans dramatically. "Oh, spare me, you two. Can't you save the mushy stuff for after the game?" But he's grinning as he gets back on the ice and skates off, giving us a mock salute over his shoulder.

Emile's grin widens at Calvin's retreat, and he leans over the boards, extending his hand toward me. When I place my hand in his, he pulls me closer until we're only inches apart. "Well?"

I playfully roll my eyes before leaning in to peck his cheek. "There, your sprinkle of luck," I say, pulling away with a teasing smirk.

But Emile only shakes his head, tightening his grip on my hand and not breaking eye contact. "I think you missed the mark, Sara."

He moves his head slightly to the side, eyes gleaming with a playful challenge. His breath fans over my face, quieting any witty retort that was on the tip of my tongue. Instead, I find myself closing the distance between us, our lips meeting in a soft kiss that quickly turns heated and leaves me breathless even after the brief encounter. I can hear the distant sounds of the crowd growing louder as the game draws near, but in this moment, it feels like we're the only two people in the arena.

"Good luck out there," I murmur, my heart pounding.

He grins. "Promise to spend the night with me after the game and I'm already a winner."

I gasp. "You mean come to your room?"

"I mean share my room. And my bed. If you're ready for that, of course."

"I'm ready," I whisper, feeling my insides tighten and my breath shallow.

"You sure? I don't want to pressure you into anything."

"You're not. I want to spend the night with you, Emile."

"Then it's a date," he replies, his voice quiet but filled with a warmth that makes my cheeks flush. He kisses me one last time before pushing away from the sideboards and turning to rejoin the team on the ice.

I watch as he skates away, his muscular build an effortless blend of power and grace. Biting my lip, I clutch his Nighthawks jersey around me, my body heating with both anticipation and nerves. After the game tonight, I won't be a virgin anymore.

As I set up my tripod near the bench to capture some in-game footage, I get so caught up trying to balance it out that I don't notice when my dad comes up behind me.

"Ready to knock ‘em dead with your video skills?"

"Dad!" I jump at his voice and clutch at my chest as I turn around. "You scared me!"

"Sorry, pumpkin." He chuckles. "Didn't mean to startle you."

"Sure you didn't." I roll my eyes as I go back to adjusting the tripod. "How do you think the team is going to play without Luc?"

He takes a seat on the bench beside me and lets out a sigh. "We've had a good run so far. So I'm hoping for the best. But between you and me, it's not going to hurt our playoff chances if we don't win this one." He pauses for a moment, rubbing his hands together in front of him as he watches me a moment. "You're wearing Emile's jersey."

"I am." I straighten up, meeting his eyes with a hint of defensiveness tightening my shoulder blades. I really don't want this to be a continued problem between us.

But to my surprise, he smiles. "Looks good on you."

I blink, taken aback. "Really?"

"Yes, really," he says softly, his eyes following the trajectory of a puck on the ice.

I feel my throat clench with unshed tears. It's not an explicit blessing on our relationship, but it's as close as I think I might get. "Thanks, Dad," I manage to say through the sudden lump in my throat.

His gaze switches back to me. "Just make sure he treats you right, OK, pumpkin?"

I nod, my heart swelling. "I will, dad," I reply.

With that, he rises from the bench and heads back toward the locker rooms, leaving me alone with my tripod and the rumbling excitement of the arena as it fills up with fans for the impending game.

It's not long before the starter buzzer sounds and it's all systems go. I spend the first period capturing footage of the team in action. It's a challenge to keep quiet for the recording, when all I want to do is cheer every time Emile makes a great play, but I manage. During breaks, I upload snippets to the team's social media, loving the immediate response from the fans.

As the second period starts, I find a spot in the stands to watch for a bit, camera at the ready to take some still shots. The Nighthawks are playing well, but the absence of Luc is noticeable. There's a slight hesitation in their plays, a half-second of uncertainty that the Northern Fury seems to be capitalizing on.

My heart leaps into my throat as I watch one of the Fury's forwards barrel toward Emile, slamming him hard against the boards. The crack of his body hitting the plexiglass echoes through the arena, and for a moment, Emile seems stunned. Come on, Emile. You've got this. Shake it off.

I exhale in relief as he pushes himself up, skating back into the play with determination etched on his face. That's my guy, always ready to fight back.

The game is tied as they head into the third period, and the arena is buzzing. I'm on my feet, my hands gripping the cellphone I'm filming on so tightly my knuckles turn white. Every shot on goal, every missed pass, every penalty—it all feels magnified, the stakes higher than ever.

I get back to players' area with about two minutes left on the clock and set my phone back in the tripod to go live on Instagram while I watch with my own eyes instead of needing to watch the screen while filming. "You can do this," I whisper to myself, even though I'm not the one on the ice. But I can't help it. Emile's success feels like my success. His happiness, my happiness.

The Fury's goalie has been a brick wall all night, deflecting shot after shot. But the Nighthawks aren't giving up. They're pressing hard, fighting for every inch of the ice.

Then, with just over a minute to go, Emile steals the puck from a Fury defenseman. He's off like a shot, his skates carving up the ice as he weaves through the defenders. His movements are fluid and precise, each turn calculated and purposeful. I hold my breath.

"Come on, come on..."

Emile draws two defensemen toward him, creating a gap. At the last second, he passes to Declan, who's positioned himself perfectly in front of the net. Declan doesn't hesitate. He winds up, the flex of his stick promising power, and shoots...

The puck rockets through the air, a blur of black against the white ice. The goalie dives, his glove outstretched, but he's a fraction of a second too late. The puck sails into the net just as the buzzer sounds, signaling the end of the game.

"Oh my god! Yes!"

The arena erupts, the roar of the crowd deafening. I'm screaming, jumping up and down in sheer, unadulterated joy. I see Emile on the Jumbotron, his face split with the widest, most open grin I've ever seen as his teammates gather around him and Declan in a huddle of celebration. In that moment, he looks up, straight into the camera and I swear he's looking right at me.

Then, to my disbelief, he mouths something. It takes me a second to decipher his words through his helmet, but then I realize he said my name. "Where's Sara? I need my little mouse."

An even more ecstatic squeal escapes me as I bounce on the balls of my feet in wild excitement. "Did you see that?" I shout into my phone, my heart pounding in sync with the victorious Nighthawks' anthem echoing through the arena. "That's my man out there!"

I cut off the live stream and grab my stuff as the team makes their way off the ice, and I hurry down to meet them. Emile spots me instantly, breaking away from the group to sweep me into his arms.

"There she is!"

"You were amazing out there," I tell him, my voice muffled against his chest and all the padding.

He pulls back, grinning down at me. "Of course. I had my lucky charm watching over me."

I laugh, shaking my head. "I think that was all you, superstar."

"Nah, it's us. We're a team, remember?" He leans down, kissing me softly. "I love you so fucking much, Sara."

"I love you too, Emile."

As he heads off to the locker room, I can't stop smiling and really trying to drink all of this in. This is my life now—hockey, social media, and the most incredible man I've ever known. It's a far cry from where I thought I'd be just a few months ago, and I can't believe I even spent a second fighting against it. But now that I'm here, now that it's mine, I wouldn't trade it for anything in the world.