Chapter 9

Amelia

The chill in the open space is cold on my cheeks, but it's a good kind of cold—the kind that reminds me I'm about to do something I love. Riley grins at me as he hands over a pair of skates, and the entire ice rink in front of us is completely empty.

"I can't believe you did this," I say and bounce a little on the bench.

"Thought you'd enjoy a private skate, just the two of us," he replies with a smile as we sit side by side on the bench and lace up our skates.

"When was the last time you had these on?" Riley asks, nodding toward my skates.

"Too long," I admit, looping the lace around my finger, "but it's like riding a bike, right?"

"Guess we'll find out." He chuckles, standing up.

"Hey, how about a little competition? First one to ten goals wins," he suggests playfully.

"Sure, you're on." I stand, finding my balance. "What does the winner get?"

"Let's say... the loser has to cook dinner for the winner." His grin grows wider, mischievous.

"Hope you're ready to whip up a gourmet meal, Watson," I tease back.

"Bring it, Brooks."

I take a few practice laps to get my skating legs back before I bust into competitive mode.

"Almost forgot how freeing this feels," I call out while my body remembers the rhythm of skating from muscle memory.

"Looks like you never stopped," Riley replies.

"Flattery won't save you from kitchen duty," I shout, stealing the puck with a swift move and aiming for the goal but miss.

"Wouldn't dream of it," he says and winks at me, taking his shot and sliding the puck in the net with ease.

The puck once again skids across the ice, and I'm on it like a hawk, but then Riley swoops in. He's a blur of motion, yet his stick misses the puck by a mile. I squint.

Once is an accident, twice is bad luck, but the third deliberately botched shot? No way.

"Riley Watson, are you letting me win?" My voice echoes off the rink walls.

He shrugs, all innocence. "Wouldn't dream of it, Princess. You're just that good."

"Uh-huh." I skate backwards, keeping my gaze locked on his. "Show me what you've got, Captain."

He winds up for a slapshot, the muscles in his arms flexing, but the puck goes wide again, slipping comically past the goalpost. It's too much, making me laugh. The sound fills the rink, and his grin with that pure boyish… Good Lord!

"Okay, bucko," I scold. "No more Mr. Nice Guy."

I charge at him, picking up speed. My intention is clear to swat at him, but as I near, he doesn't move away. Instead, he braces himself. At the last second, he reaches out, his hands secure around my waist. Momentum carries us in a spin, and I'm lifted off the ice, the rink spinning around.

"Riley!" I yelp, half-laugh, half-shout, with the rush of being airborne.

"Gotcha," he says, his voice low next to my ear.

As if I weigh nothing at all, he swings me around, my ponytail lashing out like a whip. And then, just as suddenly as he caught me, he's pulling me close, his body merging with mine. Time slows as he lowers me back onto the ice, his lips finding mine.

The kiss deepens and makes the rest of the world fall away. It’s just Riley's strong arms, the taste of him, and the solid ice beneath my feet. When he finally pulls back, his blue eyes are intense. My heart hammers against my ribs, and I'm grateful for the cold because I need to cool off a bit.

"Guess you won the wager after all," he whispers.

"Maybe," I manage to say, standing there so close that our breaths mingle. "But who's keeping score?"

I let go of the need to prove myself, allowing the moment to be just what it is—unexpected, wild, and thrilling.

"Let's get out of here," I suggest. "I've got the perfect dessert waiting back at my place."

Riley's eyebrows lift in interest, the corners of his mouth curving into a grin that promises trouble—and I'm all for it. We shed our skates and grab our belongings.

We step outside, and Riley drapes his jacket over my shoulders, his fingers brushing my collarbone lightly. The gesture is intimate, sending another wave of heat through me.

"Your chariot awaits," he jokes, gesturing towards his car and making me giggle.

The ride starts off with the usual conversation of music preferences. As the city lights blur on the ride, Riley's tone shifts, and he begins to ask questions that go deeper than just surface level.

"Ever think about how nice anonymity can be?" he asks, his gaze flickers to me, then back to the road. "Like, on online platforms where no one knows who you are?"

The question catches me off-guard, a lump forming in my throat. Is he onto me? Did he see my studio after all, he hasn’t acted like he had since that morning her left my place.

"Sure," I say, keeping my answer simple. "It's... freeing, in a way."

"Exactly," he nods, seeming to be satisfied with my response. Yet there's still a small smile and the look of curiosity in his eyes. "You know, gaming platforms, forums... it's easier to just be yourself without any baggage."

"Right, right." I force a laugh, though it sounds more like I'm choking on the word. "Baggage is the worst."

There's a lingering silence, filled only by the hum of the engine and the occasional whirl of passing cars.

He glances my way again, and I wonder if he sees through the tension I'm trying so hard to mask. His next words come slowly, deliberately.

"Amelia, what's your favorite part about working with the Blades?"

"Oh, you know, the usual," I deflect, eager to steer away from dangerous territory. "Honestly, the perk of having free home game tickets where I can go watch the games."

"Oh, so you like to watch me play," he says, glancing over to me with a wide smile.

“Not just you, the whole game,” I respond and tap his arm playfully.

“Right…” He drags the word out and winks at me.

As we pull up to my apartment building, my brain is running questions through it. What does Riley know? How much has he guessed? However, there’s something there that tells me he's not here to judge or pry—he's genuinely interested in who I am, secrets and all.

"Thanks for the ride," I say as we climb out of the car. "Now, let's go see about that dessert."

"Lead the way," he replies.

We step into the elevator, and as it raises up to my floor, Riley leans back against the wall, watching me. "So, Amelia, tell me about your family," he asks casually.

"Ah, they're... There’s not much tell," I quip, evading a direct answer. My family is not a topic I'm quite ready to talk about to him. "What about yours? Any siblings?"

"Actually, yeah," Riley says, his face lighting up. "My sister, Kindra. She's got this wedding next year—it's like her full-time job planning it. Mom's all in too. Truly, it's all they talk about." He rolls his eyes. "I think my dad and I are counting down the days until it's over just as much as Kindra is until it happens."

"Wedding fever, huh?" I laugh, imagining Riley dodging bridesmaids and escaping from endless conversations about floral arrangements and color schemes. "Sounds intense."

"Understatement of the year," he chuckles, shaking his head. The elevator dings, and the metal door slides open.

As we walk down the hallway to my door, Riley throws another question my way, one that makes me tense up despite the casualness of his tone. "This is a nice place you've got. How do you manage it on a Blades' salary?"

"Good budgeting," I say quickly, my mind racing for a subject change. "And some luck." I unlock my door, grateful for the distraction. "You want coffee with dessert?"

"Sure, coffee sounds great," he replies, following me inside. As I lead him through to the kitchen, I think that Riley is seriously trying to figure me out.

I flick on the kitchen lights and grab two mugs from the cupboard, my movements deliberately slow. Anything to buy time, to avoid the gaze that Riley fixes on me — one that’s a little too perceptive for comfort.

"Your place has character. I liked it when I briefly was here last," he says, leaning against the doorway, his eyes roving down the hall that leads to my studio room's closed door.

"Thanks, it's cozy," I reply, spooning coffee grounds into the coffee filter with more concentration than necessary. My heart thumps unevenly as I pour water into the machine.

"Looks like you've got a lot of space back there," he observes casually, nodding toward the studio room.

"Storage, mostly. You know, for all of my... extra furniture and some hockey equipment." I wince internally at how lame that sounds. It's not entirely a lie—there are a few sticks and pads in there among the backdrop and lighting for the other side of my life. The side I'm not sure I want him to know about yet.

"Right." He doesn't press further, but the way his eyes linger on the door, I really am thinking that he knows there's more behind it. "You must have a ton of gear then."

"Something like that." I manage a tight-lipped smile and hand him his coffee.

"Amelia," Riley starts, his voice lowering an octave. I turn to face him, and I can tell by the look in his eyes that whatever game we're playing, the stakes just got higher. "Whatever it is, you can trust me."

I laugh nervously, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. "Trust is earned, don't you think?"

"Absolutely." His response comes quickly, but he seems sincere. He sips his coffee, eyes never leaving mine. "So, let's earn it."

The words hang between us. As much as I want to dive into those deep truths with him, I'm frozen by a fear of what lies beneath. If he saw the emerald wig, the other Amelia, would he still look at me the same way?

"Let's enjoy our dessert first," I suggest with a half-smile. "How about we start with something sweet?" The double meaning isn't lost on either of us.