Chapter 21

York

I lie on the bed, staring at the ceiling, the shadows shifting as the light from outside filters through the curtains. Sleep isn’t coming, and it hasn’t for hours. My thoughts are tangled, circling the same thing over and over again: Noelle. I can’t stop thinking about her—about the way she looked at me tonight, waiting for me to say something, to speak up. And I didn’t. I froze.

I want to go to her, to tell her that I do want to be with her. Hell, I’ve never wanted anything more. But the life I lead? It’s not what she deserves. I’ve seen firsthand what happens when you drag someone into this world—this messy, chaotic life filled with paparazzi, speculation, and rumors. It’s ugly. Noelle’s parents don’t even know the half of it. If they did, I doubt they’d ever be okay with me being in her life for real.

I turn onto my side, staring at the soft glow coming from under the door, the house quiet now that everyone’s gone to bed. The weight of this whole situation presses down on my chest, making it hard to breathe. I see how the other guys on my hockey team deal with it—their relationships are constantly splashed across the tabloids, every little fight or rumor blown out of proportion. Half of them end up broken, torn apart by the pressure, the constant scrutiny. I’ve watched it ruin good things, solid things.

And Noelle… she deserves better than that. She deserves more than hiding from cameras or pretending things are one way when they’re something else entirely. She deserves someone who can give her a life free of all the baggage I come with.

But the problem is, I can’t escape her. No matter how hard I try to convince myself that I’m doing the right thing by keeping my distance, I keep getting pulled back to her. I keep wanting more. I’ve never felt like this about anyone, and the thought of letting her go makes my chest ache in ways I didn’t think were possible.

I sit up, running my hands through my hair, trying to shake the restlessness. Maybe I should just talk to her. Lay it all out. Tell her that I want to be with her, but that this life—the constant eyes on us—won’t be easy. She deserves to know the truth.

I push myself off the bed, pacing the room, but I stop when my gaze catches on the closet across the room. There’s a box there, and I don’t know what draws me to it, but something does. I open it, my eyes landing on something worn.

A diary. It’s old, the leather cover cracked and faded. I shouldn’t—I know I shouldn’t—but I find myself reaching for it anyway. When I open it, the pages are filled with neat handwriting. My heart stumbles in my chest when I realize it’s Noelle’s diary.

I know I should put it back, leave it alone, but my fingers are frozen on the pages. I flip through them slowly, the words blurring together as I catch glimpses of her thoughts, her dreams. This was before I ever really knew her. Before all of this.

I stop on one page, her handwriting slightly messier, as if she wrote it quickly. And that’s when I see my name.

York Steele.

I swallow hard, my pulse quickening as I stare at the words in disbelief. She wrote about me—about how she felt back then.

I get comfortable on the bed, and read;

I don’t even know why I’m writing this down—it feels silly, but I can’t stop thinking about York. He’s been on the team for a while now, and I’ve always watched him from the stands, but something’s changed this year. I’m starting to notice more than just how good he is on the ice. He’s... well, perfect. And the way he moves, so fast and precise, it’s like he was born for this sport. Watching him play for the Colorado Blizzard, with my dad coaching him, I feel like I’m getting a front-row seat to something amazing.

There’s this moment, right before he takes a shot, where everything goes still, and I can see the focus in his eyes. It’s like he’s in his own world, blocking out the noise, the crowd, the pressure. I love watching him in those moments. He’s so intense, so driven. He makes it look effortless, like the puck is just an extension of him.

And then, when the game is over, he’s back to being York—smiling, joking with the other guys, like none of it was a big deal. But it is a big deal to me. Because every time I watch him out there, something stirs in me that I can’t explain. I get this flutter in my stomach whenever he skates by, and I hate that I can’t look away. It’s embarrassing how much I think about him. I mean, he’s practically family with how close he is to Dad.

But here’s the truth: I’ve got the biggest crush on York Steele. There, I said it.

I flip to the next page, and am stunned speechless by what’s written there.

The naughty things I’d let York do to me if we were ever given the chance. I’d let him lick whip cream off my body, because who doesn’t like whip cream. I’d let him kiss me anywhere and everywhere.

I can’t believe I’m giggling like a little schoolgirl at these dirty thoughts, but truth is, I can’t stop thinking about him. About all the things I want him to do to me.

I mean, I’d let him stick his hockey stick anywhere, if you catch my drift. Anywhere. I’d also let him check all my boxes. I’m getting corny over here. But I don’t care, York drives me completely batty. I want him. I want his hands all over me. I really do. His big, strong hands. I can only imagine how his skin would feel against mine. Late at night, when the whole world is sleeping. We’d be the only two awake, exploring one another. And I’d wish on a falling star to never let it end.

I close the diary, my fingers still resting on the worn leather cover. My heart is pounding in my chest, and my mind is spinning. Noelle had a crush on me—back then, when I was just some young guy trying to make a name for myself in hockey. The thought stirs something deep inside me, something I didn’t expect. It’s like seeing a side of her I never knew existed.

She wrote about me, about how she watched me on the ice, how she admired me. And now, all these years later, here we are. This isn’t a high school crush anymore—this is real. But after reading her diary, I realize that maybe she’s been feeling this way for longer than I ever knew.

I need to see her.

I pull out my phone, my fingers hovering over the screen for a moment before I start typing.

Me: Meet me in the garage. Now.

I hit send and stare at the screen, my heart racing. Part of me wonders if I should have said more—explained why I’m so desperate to see her—but there’s no time for that. I need to talk to her, to see her face and hear her voice. To tell her everything that’s been going through my head since I read her words.

The seconds tick by like hours, the silence of the room pressing down on me. I don’t know what I’ll say when she gets here, but I can’t stop thinking about that diary, about the way she described watching me on the ice, like I was something more to her than I ever realized.

My phone buzzes.

Noelle: Be there in a minute.

I exhale, my breath shaky. This is it. I tuck the diary back into the drawer and head for the garage, my heart pounding harder with every step.

It’s time to face her. Time to tell her everything.