Page 7 of The Wingman

It is, though. There’s something about Hayden playing this brutal contact sport that has me captivated.

Around us in the arena, the fans cheer and holler, yelling at the refs for missing calls. It’s a sea of Storm jerseys from over the decades, and I feel a little out of place in just my winter coat.

“We’re so glad you joined us,” Pippa Hartley says with a shy but friendly smile, leaning past her sister, Hazel, to look at me. Both are clad in their own Storm jerseys. I met them last year through Hayden. “It’s so much more fun sitting down here than up in the box.”

The whistle blows and play stops. Jamie Streicher, the surly, serious Storm goalie, turns at the net in front of us to grab a drink of water. His eyes go straight to Pippa, hisfiancée, and even through the goalie mask, the way his expression softens is obvious.

Every time I see them together, he can’t take his eyes—or hands, if she’s close enough—off her. Hayden said they went to high school together and reconnected when she was hired as his assistant last season. She’s a singer-songwriter now and released her first album last year. Celebrities are supposed to have huge egos and be rude and demanding, but it seems like fame hasn’t changed Pippa one bit.

“Yeah, you know that’s your seat now, right?” Hazel smiles with raised eyebrows. “You sit with us now, down here where the action is.”

I bite back on my grin. “If you insist.”

“We do. You’re ours now.” Hazel turns back to the game, gaze going to her fiancé, Rory Miller, the cocky, teasing team captain. He also went to high school with her, Jamie, and Pippa, although Hazel seemed to hate his guts until they started dating at the beginning of this season.

This winter, Hayden whispered to me that he suspected they were just pretending to date to make her awful ex jealous, but there’s nothing fake about the way she looks at himorthe sparkling diamond ring on her finger.

Besides working as a physiotherapist for the team, Hazel teaches yoga and recently opened her own body-positive inclusive fitness studio here in Vancouver. She’s gone down to physio work one day a week for the team while she gets the studio off the ground.

“Are you doing okay?” She studies me openly. I have a feeling that I could tell her anything right now and she wouldn’t judge. “With the breakup and all?”

“Hazel,” Pippa says patiently. “She might not want to talk about it.”

Hazel shrugs. “It’s fine if you don’t. But I’d be a bad friend if I didn’t ask and offer my support. Fuck that guy, by the way.”

I laugh silently. “No, Kit’s not a bad guy.”

“I don’t care. Most hockey players are trash, except for Streicher and Rory.” Her mouth tips up. “Hayden’s pretty great, too. He made sure Rory got home that night he drank too much and got a tattoo. It seems like he always takes care of his friends.” She slides a sidelong glance at me.

“He does.” I swallow. “Hayden’s the best.”

“So,” Hazel says quietly, “like I asked, are you okay?”

“I think so?” A light, uncertain laugh slips out of me. “I have no idea. I feel like I’m holding it together, given the circumstances.”

“I do, too.” Her mouth tugs up into a wry smile. “I think you’re doing great.”

“Enough about me. How’s the studio?”

“It’s a ton of work, but,” she beams, eyes sparkling, “it’s pretty great. It doesn’t feel like work when I’m there, you know?”

She tells me about creating the class schedule, hiring teachers and front-desk staff, and the interest she’s already gotten from locals.

“It feels almost too good to be true, that I get to do it every day. That it’s myjobnow,” she says. “I’d do it for free.”

Her words cause a tug in my chest, a sense that Hazel has something I want. It’s not jealousy—I want her to have her dream job. It’s envy, because women like Hazel and Pippa go for their dreams.

I wish I could be more like them, but I’ve been burned before. My actuarial job may be boring, but it’s safe. No one gets hurt.

“And whenever I doubt myself,” she adds, glancing over atRory, who’s lining up for a face-off, “Miller is right behind me, telling me I can do anything.”

The ring on Hazel’s left hand catches the light, sparkling and glinting. My mind flicks to the ring I handed back to Kit a month ago, and an ache throbs through my chest. When I glance up at Hazel, though, she’s staring at her hand with a dreamy expression.

“Your ring is beautiful.” A pale-blue stone with shades of gray, surrounded by tiny, delicate diamonds on a rose-gold band.

“Thank you.” Her mouth curves into a smile. “I’m surprised at how much I love it. I never put much stock into jewelry or engagement rings, but…” She bites her lip. “It has meaning. Rory could give me a ring pop and I’d probably love it.”

There’s a funny feeling in my chest—a whisper of something I’ve never had. A complete and utter infatuation with someone.

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