Page 10 of Hockey Halloween
I flash him a playful smirk, leading him toward the end of the second floor hallway. When his eyes land on the plaque with the exhibit’s name, he lets out a loud chuckle. “No freaking way.”
The Establishment of the Peacocks—New York’s favorite hockey team
“I thought it was fitting.”
“Doesn’t it always remind you of your ex?”
“My hockey player ex?” He nods, so I continue. “I’ve studied the material in that room many times. It’s not the sport’s fault my ex was a cheating asshole. I can still enjoy the game, even if until tonight, I tried my best to stay away from players.”
He gives me a look that’s half sympathy, half curiosity. “How long were you together?”
“Almost three years. We met during freshman year in college in Minneapolis. I thought we were building something real; turns out I was the only one who thought that.” I take a deep breath, steadying myself. “It all got messy after he dropped out of college and started playing in the local team in the developmental league. But it’s not the sport’s fault he was a selfish liar.”
“Still,” he mutters, “your reaction to me being a hockey player was pretty strong earlier. I don’t want to upset you with any hockey talk.”
“The truth about your profession caught me off guard.” I meet his gaze, not shying away. “At first you were this charming guy at a party who likedThe Mummyand listened when I talked about my passion. Then suddenly you were a well-known hockey player and I—” I hesitate, then say it plainly. “I panicked.”
His expression softens. “Because you didn’t want history repeating itself.”
“Sure,” I admit, toying with a strip of fabric on my dress. “To be fair, I don’t think you’re like him at all.”
He huffs, crossing his arms. “I better not be. I hate how many people assume I’m a player on and off the ice. That couldn’t be further from the truth. The image people have of athletes doesn’t exactly help either.”
“I should’ve judged you on how you treated me, not what you do for a living. I’m sorry for that.”
“It’s understandable, even if I hated it,” he confesses, his entire body relaxing.
“Is it hard for you to trust new people?” I ask, thinking of his earlier words about how he’s bad at dating for that reason.
His eyes drop to the floor. “Definitely. That’s why I don’t date much. I’ve learned to keep things surface-level. Easier that way.”
“I get that. I’ve kept people at arm’s length for a long time too. It’s easier than letting someone in and risking it all again.”
He lifts his head, studying me, like he’s reading between the lines. “I’m not planning on letting that go to waste. Let’s see where this goes, Willa. No pressure.”
“No pressure,” I repeat.
My feet ache from a night that’s unraveled in twists and turns I never saw coming. With a relieved sigh, I reach down, unbuckling my decorative golden heels. Slipping them off, I let the cool floor soothe the ache.
Nolan glances at me, amusement flickering across his handsome face. As I walk toward him waiting for me at the next display, I realize I’m not just showing him where I work. I’m openly sharing a big part of me with a guy who’s taking more space in my heart with every passing minute.
Ford
Willa lets me hold her free hand through the exhibit and I swear something in my body changes from the touch alone. Her fingers fit perfectly between mine, and neither of us comments on it. We don’t need to. The restless energy under my skin goes quiet with the connection. Maybe I’ve been wound too tight and didn’t know it until now.
I glance around the space—rows of old jerseys, team banners and yellowed press clippings cover the walls and other surfaces. It makes me think about how hockey is more than a sport; it’s a way of life, making people feel like they belong to something bigger than themselves. I love being a part of that world, even if it brings pressure and high expectations to my life. I still know how extremely blessed I am to play the sport I love for living.
“I didn’t expect tonight to be anything more than loud music and forced small talk,” I share after a quiet beat. “Then you showed up?—”
“Dressed like a mummy,” she cuts in.
“You're the hottest mummy I’ve ever seen.”
She lets out an unguarded laugh that’s quickly becoming addictive. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe,” I give her hand the gentle squeeze, tugging her forward, “but it makes you smile so bright, so why stop?”
We take in the displays at an easy pace. We’re making time rather than losing it. Our fingers stay locked, the building connection between us needing the reassurance of skin on skin.
