We want more for our mom. We want her to love herself. It’s why I’m opening my own inclusive fitness studio one day. Everyone deserves to move and feel good in their body. Everyone deserves to love themselves.
The fans roar, and I pull my attention back to the game. Rory nabs the puck, skating away from the mess of players like a bullet. He’s on a breakaway toward the net in front of Pippa and me. He’s moving so fast his skates barely touch the ice, deft and with complete control. My pulse stumbles at his expression, so powerful and focused, and around me, spectators brace themselves.
I don’t see the puck until it’s already in.
Noise explodes—fans hollering, music blasting, the horn they blare for every goal sounding—and lights flash around the net.
A strange, proud feeling moves through me as the players gather around Rory, celebrating.
“Admit it,” Pippa says over the noise. “That was incredible.”
I huff, laughing despite myself. “Don’t tell Miller.”
The players break apart for another face-off, and when Rory turns, I prepare to roll my eyes at his cocky grin.
His expression is flat, unimpressed, and tired. The emotional kind of tired, the kind that wears you down and makes you feel like things will never get better. He’s wearing the same exhaustion I feel after hearing my mom list her flaws, all the reasons her body isn’t good enough. A looming sense of dread gathers within me, and I feel a pinch of regret.
Rory Miller is supposed to be a cocky asshole who can have whatever he wants, not a burned-out hockey player with a crappy dad.
Before I can think more about it, the puck drops and Rory snags it. Just as he swings around the net, a player from the other team crosschecks him into the boards, smashing his face and helmet against the glass.
The fans loudly demand a penalty as the ref blows the whistle. Rory winces, rubbing his lip. It’s bleeding.
“Shit,” I whisper as my stomach knots. “Is he okay?”
Pippa’s gaze slides to me. “Why do you care?”
I think about how warm his hand was around mine the other day and the zinging trail of sparks his touch left along my skin.
“I don’t.” My shoulders lift in a shrug. “I don’t want him to get hurt, though.”
Her eyes narrow, but her lips curve up. “Interesting.”
A knocking noise on the glass has us whipping our heads. Rory waits on the other side, his lip already swelling. I can feel a thousand eyes on us. He points to me, then taps his chin. His eyes glitter with teasing amusement.
“Oh my god.” My face burns, and I want to disappear.
“Kiss it better,” he says through the glass.
My skin is on fire. “No.” I give him a hard look.
“I need it,” he insists, still smiling. “And it needs to be you.”
I’m sweating under this stupid jersey. My face appears on the Jumbotron. That means it’s on TV. Oh god.
“Do it!” someone screams from behind me, and Pippa dissolves into laughter.
“Kiss him, kiss him,” the fans behind me start chanting, and my mouth falls open.
This is not happening.
“Hartley,” Rory calls with bright eyes, tapping his stick on the glass again. “Everyone’s waiting.”
He’s not dropping this. Behind him, Connor catches my eye, waiting with the other players with a disinterested expression like he doesn’t care, but I remember him going off about how much attention Rory got on the ice.
I think about the way he smirked when my hands were on his thigh, and rage bursts inside me, sharp and hot.
I’ll kill Rory later, but for now, I lean forward. He tilts his jaw so it’s pressed against his side of the glass. People start cheering and catcalling as I lean up on my tiptoes and press my lips to my side of the glass, praying it’s clean.
Cheers erupt as Rory clutches his heart. He shoots me a wink before skating away.
So, so arrogant.
The Vancouver team glances over at me with a mix of confused and entertained expressions. Hayden’s eyes pop out of his head. Connor skates past with a scowl.
That was mortifying, but it worked.
“Everyone knows now,” Pippa says, smiling.
The game resumes, but my mind flicks to later, when we’re going to meet everyone at the bar.
Rory’s a loose cannon. My stomach tumbles with nerves. He’s shameless and he’ll do anything to win.
The night’s just started, and I think I need that safe word after all.
CHAPTER 7
HAZEL
“I knew it,” Hayden calls as he bursts through the door of the bar.
Pippa and I are sitting in a booth at the Filthy Flamingo, waiting for Jamie and Rory. The small, outdated Gastown bar’s entrance is hidden in an alley, with a dirty sign above the door. From the outside, the place is unassuming, barely noticeable, but the inside is all warm wood paneling, twinkling string lights across the ceiling, loud classic rock music, and framed vintage band posters on the walls. Tacked behind the liquor bottles lining the back of the bar is a sea of Polaroid pictures of the regulars. At the back, there’s a small stage where Pippa plays for us sometimes.
Hayden’s right in front of me, gloating with a huge smile. “You and Miller? I knew it.”
“You didn’t know it.” I glance over at the guys who just walked in. Connor’s already at a table with a few of the players. “No one knew.”
No Rory yet. Maybe he’s still doing postgame press.
Hayden points at his chest, beaming. With his blond hair, bright blue eyes, and perpetual smile, Hayden Owens is a golden retriever in human form. “I knew it,” he tells Pippa across the booth from me. “They have that flirty banter thing going on.”
Pippa smiles at me, eyes full of amusement, but I scoff, sipping my drink. “Don’t be smug, Owens, or I’ll take it out on you in physio.”
He just laughs and heads over to the counter to order a drink.
Jamie slides into the booth beside Pippa and gives her a kiss.
“Hi,” she says, smiling against his mouth.
“Hi,” he murmurs before kissing her again.
I yank my eyes away. A knot forms behind my sternum as they whisper to each other, and I try to wash it away with a swallow of my drink.
They finally pull apart, and Jamie nods at me. “Hazel. Pippa tells me congratulations are in order.”
Amusement gleams in his typically serious expression, so I know she already told him everything.
I give him a sarcastic smile. “Don’t start.”
His gaze moves behind me and the amusement drops. “If he gives you problems,” he says in a low voice so just Pippa and I can hear, “let me know.”
“I can handle Miller.”
“Not Miller.” He frowns. “McKinnon. If he does anything, I want to know. I bet Miller does, too.”