Chapter Twenty-Three

Bex

Twenty minutes later, we’re standing in front of a small art gallery on a quiet street. The sign above reads “Harbor Art Collective,” and the look on Rowan’s face as she takes it in—it’s something I’ll hold onto.

“Bex! An art exhibit? We’re grossly under dressed for this event. Leo would be appalled,” she says, glancing down at her trousers and puffy jacket.

“You look good to me,” I say, letting my gaze sweep over her deliberately.

Rowan’s dressed casually—denim trousers, a puffy jacket, and her hair loose around her shoulders. There’s something about the way she carries it all that makes her look effortlessly beautiful. For once, it feels like we’re together for something other than work. There’s something relaxed and easy about being out with her this afternoon.

The taxi pulls to a stop, and I step out first, turning to offer my hand to help her out. Her eyes flicker to mine, a slight hesitation in the curve of her lips before she places her hand in mine.

“Thank you,” she says, her voice soft, and her hand warm.

I’m in no rush to let go, as I help her out, but as soon as her feet are firmly planted on the ground, she breaks the connection.

“Ready?” I ask, my voice steady despite the way my pulse seems to quicken every time she glances at me.

“To drool over art? Always.” She beams. “I didn’t know you cared much for galleries,” she says, her voice laced with surprise and that curiosity I’ve come to crave.

“Didn’t say I don’t care,” I tell her, opening the door and gesturing for her to go ahead. “I just don’t take art as seriously as my family does.”

Inside, the gallery is filled with bright canvases, bold sculptures, and photographs that seem to freeze time. There’s a quietness in the room that feels like reverence, and I slow my pace as I watch her take it all in. We start at the first painting and I stand to her left as a constant companion, craning my neck left to right when she does, trying to see the painting the way that she does, shifting from one painting to the next as we work down the row of well lit canvas.

There’s something almost magical about seeing Rowan here, a place where she’s in her element. As she steps closer to one of the pieces, I watch the way her eyes light up, taking in every brushstroke, every shade and shadow. It’s different from how she watches a game—this is softer, like she’s connecting with something personal.

We get to another piece, the largest one in the collection and based on the additional lighting and the fact that it’s displayed proudly by itself without any other painting near it, I venture to guess that it’s the most expensive piece here.

Rowan lights up the moment she sees it.

“See, this is the kind of painting I hope to hang in that spot in my apartment, except my apartment wouldn’t do this masterpiece justice. It should be in some beautiful home somewhere being admired daily,” she says, taking in the painting with wonderment.

The painting is called Effervescent Embrace and it already sold for a low six figures, but that doesn’t stop Rowan from admiring it. Her crystal blue eyes gaze over every inch of the colorful landscape, as if she doesn’t want to miss a single brush stroke.

“It’s like you can feel the wind in it,” I murmur, realizing the words fall out of my mouth on their own. I clear my throat, a bit embarrassed, but she only nods, a soft smile tugging at her lips.

“You can always tell when an artist poured themselves into their work,” she says, her eyes not parting with the canvas for even a second. “It’s like it’s alive.”

I glance at her, at the way she seems almost part of the painting herself. She has that same energy, that same kind of passion, and it pulls me in, stirs something deep in me I’m not sure I’m ready for.

“You’re not looking at the painting,” she says, catching me.

“I can admire it better through your eyes,” I say, and it’s true. Seeing her here, seeing her like this—it’s like I’m discovering something I didn’t know I was searching for.

She turns to look at me, searching my face for a joke, but there’s no teasing smirk on my face. I meant what I said.

“Have you ever thought about going into art journalism? Leave The Seattle Sunrise behind?” I ask, remembering our conversation back at the gala.

Her face softens, and she laughs quietly. “My career path chose me and I’m not mad about it. It works for me. I’m carving out a piece of that world for myself. And one day I’ll have a piece like this in a home where I can appreciate it everyday. That will be my reward, and it will be enough,” She shrugs, as if it wasn’t a big decision to give up her dreams, but I can see that it was. “And to think, you could have had my dream job, but I think hockey chose you.”

I huff out a laugh. “Hockey didn’t leave much choice, no.”

We fall into a comfortable silence, our shoulders nearly touching as we move from piece to piece. The air around us feels thick with something unspoken, an understanding that feels natural but new. I find myself looking at her more than the art, watching how each piece affects her, how her eyes glint with inspiration or soften with appreciation.

Movement from across the room catches my attention. Harper’s face lights up as she and I lock eyes. She strides over, eyes flicking between the two of us with a smile that says she’s up to something. “Rowan,” she says brightly, “have you met the artist yet?”

Rowan’s face lights up, “Oh, I couldn’t… I mean, I’d love to, but—”

She looks over to me, seeking some kind of sign that this is okay. I nod, keeping it casual, but inside, there’s nothing casual about how I feel seeing her this excited.

“Come on!” Harper says, already tugging her along before Rowan can finish the sentence, guiding her to where the artist is standing, chatting with a few patrons. I watch as Rowan disappears into a small group clustered around the artist, her eyes shining with admiration.

Just watching her, I feel… well, I don’t know if there’s even a word for it. It’s a mix of pride and longing, something deep and unrelenting, like being caught in a rip current I don’t want to escape. She’s utterly unaware of the spell she’s cast, but it’s got me tangled, pulled under, and sinking fast.

I turn back to Harper, catching her just as she’s about to drift off to check on other patrons. “Harper, that piece that Rowan likes—the Effervescent Embrace” I say, pointing at it. “Who did you sell it to?”

There’s a glint in her eye. We don’t know each other well except for a few times we’ve met when she came down to Seattle to watch Ryker play, yet still, I have a feeling she knows why I’m asking. “You know I can’t give out names of the buyers, Mr Townsend.”

“Fine, I don’t need a name, just offer the buyer double. Tell them that the recipient will appreciate it more than they will. I’m sure they’re collectors that won’t even hang it up. It’ll stay locked in some walk-in safe somewhere,” I say, my voice firm, leaving no room for negotiation.

Her eyes widen in surprise. “Double?” she asks and then her eyes shoot over in Rowan’s direction.

“Triple if you have to. Whatever it takes to make it happen. in season tickets and my private box at the Hawkeyes stadium. I never use it anyway,” I tell her. “Just get me that painting.”

Harper’s lips curl into a knowing smile, and she pulls out her phone, taking down my details and nodding as I give her Rowan’s address—the one I’ve memorized from the times I dropped her off in the limo and the rideshare after Shawnie’s party. Just in case. “All right, Coach Townsend,” she says, nodding with a grin, “I’ll see what I can do.”

Harper heads off as someone waves her over to a painting, but she stops briefly to her assistant, telling him something and then points at me quickly. He nods and starts dialing a phone number and disappears into the back. I turn my gaze back to Rowan. She’s still conversing with the artist, hanging onto her every word. For a moment, I just stand there, watching her face light up with every new thing she learns. It’s strange; I’d always thought that being happy in hockey, and chasing a dream that big, was enough. But now, the idea of bringing Rowan this kind of happiness is a high that hockey hasn’t brought me in a long time.

It’s not that I don’t still love the sport. And there are few things that feel as good as holding a Stanley Cup over your head in a stadium full of fans going wild, but I’m beginning to realize that hockey isn’t enough anymore.

A few minutes later, Rowan breaks away from the conversation, her eyes darting around until they land on me. She walks over, a content smile on her lips.

“Ready?” she asks.

I shake my head, glancing back at the gallery around us. “We can stay as long as you want.”

She beams up at me, and that’s it. It’s like she doesn’t even know the hold she has over me. I’d stay here forever if it meant seeing her happy like this. And that’s when I feel it—that realization I hadn’t expected. Rowan’s the one. And I don’t know if she’s looking at me the same way, but hell, I want her to. I want her to see me as the man who’d do anything for her.

When we make it back to the hotel, I know this is my shot to tell her how things have changed for me, before we get back to Seattle and a world of distraction hits us again. I’m walking her to her room, rehearsing the question in my head—Can we make this work? Do you want to be with me? Seattle—Liverpool—The Hawkeyes. All of that is still up in the air. And maybe she’ll say no. I’ve given her enough reason to.

She turns to me, a gentle smile on her face, and I take a breath, ready to ask if I can come in so we can talk for a minute.

But then her phone rings. She glances at it, her sister’s name lighting up the screen. With an apologetic look, she picks up, giving me a soft smile as she holds the phone away from her mouth. “Thank you for tonight. Really,” she says, her eyes holding mine for a moment longer, and opening for me to interrupt her phone conversation but I stall too long. “See you tomorrow, Bex.”

With that, she turns, stepping into her room as she chats with her sister, her voice fading as the door clicks shut behind her.

I stand there, staring at the closed door, feeling something in my chest tighten.