Page 55 of Stick Fight

“We don’t want to give anyone the wrong idea,” she whispers. “What if someone takes a picture?”

I pause. Just for a second. Then I gently let her hand go, even though I hate the space it creates.

“You’re right,” I say quietly. She’s trying to stay under the radar, for good reason. If photos of her with me start popping up online, there’s a chance assholecould find her.

But I lean in close, close enough that only she can hear me.

“When I get you alone,” I murmur, “I plan on holding a whole lot more than your hand.”

A visible shiver runs through her, and I know it’s not from the January wind. Her breath catches, and I grin before turning and pulling open the door to a boutique.

Inside, warmth hits us in a wave, along with the scent of fancy perfume and whatever high-end laundry smells like. A salesclerk spots us and immediately lights up, her heels clicking over as she heads our way.

“Can I help you find something?”

I shift slightly, suddenly very aware I’ve never been in a women’s clothing store in my entire life. And I have zero idea what I’m doing. But I’m here for her. And that’s all that matters.

Gabby glances around wide-eyed, unsure, like a deer in Louboutin-scented headlights. I get it. This place is swanky, sleek, expensive—and even though she’s in fashion, she’s not exactly rolling in spare cash right now.

Stepping in close, I say to the salesclerk, “She needs a whole new wardrobe.”

Gabby immediately leans into me, voice low and urgent. “Roman. I just need a fewthings.”

I wrap my arm around her waist, pulling her in just enough that she can feel I’m not backing down. “Then get what youneed,Gabby. And you can pay me back, eventually.”

Her expression softens, still hesitant, but there's a little sparkle behind her eyes now. “I might have a job,” she says, voice tinged with quiet hope.

I gesture toward a plush chair near the window. “Perfect. Now go find some clothes. I’ll be over there, completely useless in this environment.”

She chuckles, that warm sound doing dangerous things to my chest. “Okay,” she says. “But Iwillpay you back.”

She turns to the clerk with a confident smile, already stepping into her fashion girl groove, and I settle into the chair like it’s my new home base. I pull out my phone, idly browsing cars, pretending this is no big deal. But itis. Because suddenly, this all feels... domestic. Intimate. Like playing house with someone who feels dangerously close to feeling like home.

My phone buzzes—a text from my brother. I fire back a quick reply, leaving outthe part where I’m currently parked in a luxury women’s boutique while my not-girlfriend shops for clothes I insisted on buying her. He’d roast me into oblivion and remind me I’m skating straight into trouble.

And maybe he’s right.

But when I hear Gabby’s voice floating from the dressing room, light and full of wonder, my head lifts instinctively. She’s laughing with the salesclerk, admiring textures and fits like she was bornto do this. And sheshould be doing this—surrounded by fashion, creativity, beauty. It’s like watching someone remember who they really are.

A flicker of protectiveness flares inside me, hot and sharp. Her ex tried to snuff this light out—and I hate that I don’t have the power to put him in his place permanently. I’m a hockey player, not a Hollywood insider. But if I can give herthismoment? I will.

An hour later, she walks up to me with a faint flush on her cheeks, strands of hair falling loose around her face, and an unmistakable spark in her eyes.

“All set?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

She glances over her shoulder, biting her lip. “I picked up... kind of a lot.”

I lift my hand to stop her mid-apology. “Exactly what you needed.”

Then I smirk. “Wait, does this place sell sexy lingerie?”

Her laugh is instant and bright. “I guess you’ll just have to wait and see.”

Fuck yes.

I grab her hand—can’t help it—and pull her toward the register. Her laughter follows behind us, wrapping around my ribs and squeezing until I don’t know whether to grin or panic.

I pay without blinking, even as she worries she has too many things. We step outside, arms full of bags, and I glance at the haul.

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