3. Sara

SARA

The arena is buzzing with excitement as I take my seat behind the VIP section. It's been a while since I've been to a Nighthawks game, but the atmosphere is just as I remember it. My dad spots me from across the rink and gives a brief, approving nod. I return it with a smile, though my nerves are a tangled mess. I haven't really been to many games since my mom passed away, and just sitting here again is making me get a little choked up remembering the two of us cheering for Dad from the stands. He was always so happy back then… But I push those thoughts down. Tonight, it's about supporting the team in their big game against the Rockets, their most formidable opponent. And—if I'm honest—maybe catching a glimpse of Emile in action. From the game footage I saw when Dad was reviewing it at home, he's a great player. I could see why he was put straight into the frontline.

As the players start warming up on the ice, my eyes are drawn to Emile. There's something about the way he moves, the intensity in his eyes, and the fact that he seems to be a genuinely kind human that makes me feel all gushy about him. It also helps that he's hot as fuck and would be the perfect representation of one of the book boyfriends in the romance novels I love to read in my spare time. Pity I'm nothing like the heroines…

Looking away from the main group of players, my attention shifts to where the team captain, Luke Bouchard, is talking to a brunette with curly hair who's sitting in front of me wearing a jersey with the number sixteen on it. I glance back to where Emile is warming up. That's his number. But who is… The knowledge hits me as soon as I see her exchange a kiss with the team captain after he hands her what looks like another jersey then skates away. This must be Emile's sister.

I watch her as she sits back and looks at the new jersey on her lap, smiling to herself as she traces Luc's number eighty-nine. When she removes the jersey with Emile's number and replaces it with Luc's, I get a strange tightness in my chest. And before I can stop myself, I'm tapping her on the shoulder.

"Excuse me," I say, wincing inside because I have zero idea why I'm doing what I'm doing. I'm just making this up as I go.

The woman turns to look at me and lifts her brow.

I smile. I should shut up. But I don't. "This is kinda a weird request. But is there any chance I could wear that jersey you just took off?"

The surprise is evident on her face. I take in her gorgeous hair and confident demeanor, the opposite of my own shy, bookish appearance.

"Uh..." she starts, clearly unsure how to respond.

I blush, knowing how strange my request must sound. I really wish my mouth and my brain had an agreement where one could tell the other to stop talking and they'd listen. "That's Emile's number you were wearing, right? You're his sister."

She nods, a not-quite-there smile forming on her lips. "Yeah, I'm Natalie, Emile's older sister. And you are?"

"Oh, I'm Sara," I say, ducking my head as I try to find a non-weird way to explain my request. "I just... I think Emile is so talented. I'd really like to support him by wearing his number—especially since he's new to the team and doesn't really have much of a fan club yet. Not saying that I'm like, his one true fan or anything. Because that would be really weird. But I just thought it'd be nice to have someone who's, uh, not related to him cheering him on." I take a deep breath, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "I mean, if that's OK with you, of course."

Natalie's eyes soften and she laughs lightly, easing the awkward tension that was building. "Of course, here you go," she says, handing the jersey to me. "I'm sure Emile would be thrilled to have such a devoted fan."

I slip the jersey over my head, feeling a bit self-conscious. "It's really not like that," I mumble when my head reappears.

"Of course it isn't," Natalie says, giving me a look that says she doesn't believe me for a second. And I suppose I can't blame her. I don't really believe me either. Since meeting Emile, I've spent more than an afternoon daydreaming about a certain tall, dark, handsome and friendly team rookie. But I'm well aware that a daydream is all it'll ever become. Not only am I the last girl a pro ice hockey player would look at, I'm also the coach's daughter—which means I'm off limits—and I'm on the first plane out of here once I land a job. Still, the jersey feels like my little secret, a piece of hope wrapped around me like a warm hug. As I adjust it to fit better, Natalie watches me with an amused expression.

"So..." she starts. "Who are you here with tonight? Are you related to another one of the players?"

I shake my head. "Oh, no. I'm actually Coach Belanger's daughter. He likes me to come to games whenever I'm home from college. And I'm home a lot now since I just graduated and the job I had lined up in New York fell through."

Natalie's eyebrows raise in surprise. "Coach Belanger's daughter, huh? Interesting." She glances over at Emile on the ice, and I follow her gaze. He seems to be looking our way, and the idea that he'd notice me wearing his jersey makes me blush from head to toe. Maybe I should take it off? Or should I act cool about it and wave at him? No. No. Not that.

"Oh. And have you met Emile yet?" Natalie asks, looking my way again.

I clamp my hands between my thighs so I don't embarrass myself. "In passing. He was real kind to me. Most players aren't like that." Which is true. Most wouldn't even look at me twice. I'm no puck bunny, even on a good day. I sigh at the memory, but before Natalie can respond, the buzzer sounds, signaling the start of the game.

The first two periods pass in a blur of high-speed skating, stick handling, and the roar of the crowd. Emile is majestic on the ice—each movement precise, each play executed with confidence. My eyes are glued to him, though I try to follow the puck as best as I can. But Emile always draws me back in. Every time he makes a play, my heart races as if I'm the one out there on the ice.

By the end of the second period, the score is tied 1-1, and the tension is thick. The Nighthawks have never won a game against the Rockets. We've been close plenty of times, but close isn't good enough. Dad thinks this year is different, though. But when the Rockets pull ahead in the third period, scoring a goal with just minutes left on the clock, my heart sinks, fearing another loss for the Nighthawks.

I'm biting the inside of my lip, my fingers and toes crossed for a miracle as the timer counts down. I almost can't watch, but then Luc Bouchard gets the puck, and the crowd is instantly on their feet, screaming as he winds up for the shot...

"Please," I whisper, eyes wide as I watch that dark flash shoot across the ice, flying into the net just as the buzzer sounds. The arena erupts into a deafening roar, and I find myself jumping over the seats and hugging Natalie, caught up in the excitement along with everyone else and wishing my mom was here to see it. She'd be screaming.

As we settle back into our seats for the overtime period, Natalie and I link arms, crossing our fingers for a Nighthawks victory. My eyes are glued to Emile, and when he steals the puck from a Rockets player, I'm on the edge of my seat. He weaves through the defenders, his movements fluid and precise. With a quick pass, he sends the puck to Luc, who's perfectly positioned in front of the net. Time seems to slow down as Luc winds up for the shot, and then...

The puck flies into the net, and the arena erupts into a deafening roar. Natalie and I are on our feet, screaming and hugging each other as the Nighthawks swarm the ice in celebration. "Oh my god! Oh my god!"

Emile is celebrating with his team on the ice, grinning from ear to ear, his teammates pounding him on the back in congratulations. I'm so freaking happy for him, and I follow along with the other VIPs to congratulate the players as they head for the locker rooms.

And we're all in for a spectacle when Luc Bouchard takes that opportunity to propose to Natalie right in front of us all. I can barely hear anything over the noise of the crowd, but I see Luc drop to one knee in front of Natalie, holding out a sparkling ring. She accepts, of course, and the crowd gets even louder. I'm grinning so hard my cheeks hurt, and I can feel tears of joy pricking at the corners of my eyes. The moment is pure magic, the kind you see in movies but rarely expect to experience firsthand.

As Natalie and Luc share a passionate kiss, Emile appears next me, his face still flushed from the game. He looks down at me with those intense hazel eyes, and I can't help but smile up at him.

"Looks like you're about to get a brother-in-law."

He nods. "Pretty incredible, huh?" His voice is rough from shouting over the noise.

"Absolutely amazing. And congratulations on your win. That assist was…" I mime the chef's kiss, fingers to my lips and he laughs.

"Thanks, Sara." His grin widens as his eyes travel down to my chest then back up to my face. "You look pretty good in my jersey, by the way."

I feel the heat rise to my cheeks and glance away with a shy smile. "Oh. Gosh. I forgot I was wearing it. It was cold and Natalie wasn't using it, so…" Reaching for the hem, I start to lift it to take it off. But Emile stops me.

"Keep it. If Natalie's not wearing it anymore, I can't think of another person I'd rather see in it." His voice drops, taking on a softer, almost intimate timbre. My heart does a little flip, and I clutch at the fabric, suddenly feeling like it's a shield and not just an oversized jersey.

"Really? You don't think I'm jinxing the team or something?" I ask, half-joking and half-serious.

He chuckles, shaking his head. "After you wore it at the game when we finally beat the Rockets? No way. If anything, you're my good luck charm now. So I insist. Keep wearing it."

I adjust my glasses slightly as I try not to giggle. "OK. But if anyone asks, make sure they know I stole it off Natalie, and that you didn't give it to me."

He nods. "Ah, yes. Can't give anyone the wrong idea."

"Exactly."

I'm about to leave him so I can head home and he can get to the locker room when he says, "Hey, I have your laptop in my car. If you're free later, I can give it to you."

"Oh, wow. That was fast. Want to meet at the Cozy Bean in an hour?"

He grins at me, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe. "It's a date," he says, before he catches himself. "I mean, not a date-date. You know what I mean."

I laugh, but before I can respond, I see my dad approaching and instinctually take the jersey off and tie it around my waist. Emile pulls back a bit then follows my gaze, understanding dawning.

"I'll see you later, Sara," he says quickly, moving away to join the team celebration.

As I watch him go, I can't help but feel a little excited about seeing him again. It's just a friendly coffee meeting...right? Nothing more.

But deep down, I know that I'm developing a pretty epic crush on Emile DuPont. And as I hug my dad, congratulating him on the team's win, I can't seem to shake the hope that maybe he has one too.

Which is exactly when I see a puck bunny chasing after him and realize that my crush is definitely one sided. Of course it is.