Page 41 of Checking Mr. Wrong
Fiona nudges my shoulder, her grin crooked. “You're doing that smile-with-your-eyes thing again.”
I roll mine, but I don’t deny it.
Iamsmiling. Not just because of Willa’s book, or the kids. It’s because of Asher. Because of a kiss that still lingers in the corners of my mouth. Because for the first time in a long time, it feels like something is starting.
I don’t know what it is, yet, but maybe lavender and hope aren’t only ingredients you find in jars on your mom’s windowsill. Maybe they’re what you carry with you when you’re standing at the edge of something new, not sure if you’re ready—but starting to believe you might be.
I take a deep breath.
And I step forward.
CHAPTER 14
ASHER
The arena buzzeslike it’s alive, a living, breathing organism—and in a lot of ways, it is. We hear people arriving, the hum of the crowd low at first but building as more fans fill the seats, until it grows into a roar. The intensity is so fierce it vibrates through my chest, even down here in the locker room, deep in the belly of the place.
This is it. Our first game. The Ice Breakers’ inaugural puck-drop as an NHL team.
The air carries the scent of popcorn, spilled beer, and fresh icemaking for a strange mix of top notes which assault my senses, but it works. From the tunnel I see nothing but a sea of Ice Breakers swag, and it’s everywhere. Fans are decked out in jerseys and waving homemade signs, all showing us they’re here to be a part of something, too. They’re believers. They’ve waited for this, for us—and now it’s here.
The cacophony of sound slams us through the concrete walls. Lucian and Weston shift beside me, tapping sticks on the ground while Clément and Jamie busy themselves by bouncing on their skates, the nervous energy in the air almost as palpable as the crowd’s. Carson stretches, arms over head and jaw tight, while Cade grins and lets out a sharp whoop, slapping theboards with his glove like he’s trying to wake the whole team up.
The lights in the arena dim, and the music kicks in—“Ice Ice Baby” bringing Vanilla Ice back into relevance yet again. Seriously, you gotta appreciate a guy with nine lives who’s made his nineties turn of fame work for him this long in some capacity. I’m trying to recall another song he did that’s as popular when the announcer’s voice booms over the speakers, drawing out our name like it’s the most important thing he’s ever said. And then, it’s time.
We burst out of the tunnel, skates carving into the ice as we hit the rink in a rush of movement and noise. The crowd explodes, their cheers so loud it’s like standing in the middle of a storm. Spotlights sweep over us, catching the flashes of cameras and the wild, waving arms of the fans.
I glance up at the owner’s box as we circle for warm-up. Troy Hart, the team’s owner and a former hockey player himself, is leaning against the glass, his sharp suit as crisp as his expression. There’s pride there, quiet but unmistakable, and maybe a little pressure, too. He’s put his money, his name, and his reputation on the line for this team, and he’s expecting results.
I take a breath, letting it all soak in. This is why we play. For this moment, for this energy. For this chance to be part of something bigger.
But, before I even think about stepping on the ice for the actual game, there are things I need to do. Since as far back as I can remember, I have had to do the ritual. Calling it a ritual feels a lot gentler than calling it what it is: an OCD tick.
First, I come off the ice after warming up and I stretch, left side, then right. Never a different order. Then, three perfect loops on my left skate lace, no more, no less. Then two on the right, because apparently, my brain needs it. Finally, I yank the tongue of my skate like I’m sealing a secret envelope. If I mess this up, I swear the puck’s gonna sneak off and start its own rebellion.
All right. Ritual complete. I push off the boards and scan thecrowd, hoping to see one certain face up there peering back at me, and she can even scowl if she wants. All I care about right now is finding Mabel.
I’m weaving with the guys, soaking in the chaos, but my eyes keep darting to the stands. Where is she? I know where she’s not been, like at the inaugural bash the other night, which was weird. Okay maybe less weird and more disappointing. Instead, I caught her on Instagram, elbow-deep in cupcake batter with Neesha. Cupcakes. Seriously? Here I was, suiting up, hoping to make another impression on her that night, and she’s off perfecting frosting techniques.
I’m still looking when…jackpot. There she is. I spot her sitting with Fiona and Willa, laughing until she freezes. It’s as if she knows I’m watching her as her head slowly turns and our eyes meet. She’s smirking like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me. I can’t resist. I glide over, point at her like I’m claiming territory, and wave so hard I’m basically signaling for air traffic control.
And because subtlety isn’t my strong suit, and these days I’m also fueled by my TikTok stardom, I throw in a little skating dance—picture a pirouette that’s one part graceful, two parts “look at me, I’m adorable.” The crowd eats it up, cheering like I just scored the winning goal in the Stanley Cup finals.
Let’s be honest, though—it’s not about them. This is all for her. She’s starting to feel less like a person and more like a piece of candy I can’t stop craving. The kind with a glossy, sugar-coated shell that promises a challenge before you break through to the gooey, melt-in-your-mouth center. The sweet reward waiting at the heart of it all.
And me? I’m a sucker for sugar. And a challenge.
Mabel’s doing her best to play it cool, which is impressive considering her poker face is about as convincing as a kid with crumbs on their face claiming they didn’t eat the cookies. Spoiler alert: Fiona and Willa aren’t buying it.
I see them elbowing her in the ribs, not even trying to besubtle about it, giggling like school kids who just saw the star quarterback trip over his own feet while pulling off a “smooth” move. Mabel’s eyes flicker in my direction for half a second before she snaps them away, like I’m Medusa and she’s determined not to turn to stone.
It’s almost cute. Almost. If my own stomach wasn’t doing somersaults and my brain wasn’t screamingWhy does she have to look so gorgeous?
I hate doing it, but I pull my focus away. I’ve seen she’s here, but I’ve got a job to do now. As fun as it would be to show off for her for the next hour, I’ve got a team who’s counting on me.
And just like that, the game is on.
The puck drops, and suddenly it’s like every ounce of noise in this arena funnels through my skates. The ice is a blur, my teammates buzzing like electric eels around me. I’m moving fast, but slow enough to soak in the crunch of blades, the slap of sticks, the wild roar of the crowd that makes my chest feel like it’s gonna burst.
