Page 12 of Hockey Halloween
Her searching gaze flicks to mine, and whatever she finds there, makes her rise onto her tiptoes. Her lips are desperate for mine, matching the weight of what I’m feeling. Our mouths move together, writing brand new words between us with every press and pull.
When the track repeats for the sixth time, we’re still wrapped around each other, foreheads touching, hearts racing in sync.
“You okay?” I ask tenderly.
“More than okay.”
I still feel how new this is. So I don’t let go yet, letting the moment anchor itself inside both of us.
After a few minutes, she leans back, her cheeks flushed. “You know this wasn’t what I expected from tonight.”
“No?” I tease, even though I know exactly what she means.
She shakes her head. “I’m really glad I met you. That you were in that club exactly when I needed you.”
I reach up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Me too.”
Willa takes my hand gently, her fingers threading through mine. Without a word, she lifts it and presses a soft kiss to my palm.
“Come on.” She tugs me toward the hallway. “It's time to show you the archives. The real heart of this place.”
Following her without question, I let her lead me down the corridor lit by warm track lighting. The soft sound of our footstepsechoes off the walls. We pass storage rooms, locked cabinets, and a sliding security door. She swipes her ID badge and types in a code.
“You ready?” she asks, glancing over her shoulder.
“If it’s anything like you, I’m going to be obsessed.”
That earns me a flush across her cheeks. She doesn’t respond with a quip this time, but presses the door open. “Then come in.”
I do. Because whatever this is—whatever strange gravity is pulling me closer—I don’t want to fight it. Not tonight. Not with her.
Pushing the door inward and flicking on the lights, my Muse casts a look over her shoulder that sends a ripple of anticipation through my chest. It’s similar to the breath before a puck drop, that still second before motion explodes. In that charged silence, I realize I’m ready for whatever comes after the drop.
Ford
“Welcome to the archives,” Willa reveals, as if she’s unveiling something sacred. “The heart of everything we do here.”
There are no polished displays or velvet ropes, no moody spotlighting you’d find in the exhibits upstairs. Just rows of industrial metal shelving, meticulously labeled boxes, filing cabinets with little brass handles, and the unmistakable scent of paper, ink and history.
She moves through the space with the kind of ease I feel gliding across ice. Her body knows exactly where to go, her fingers skimming a shelf edge as if it’s second nature. The place also recognizes her, humming in appreciation at her touch, a quiet welcome back.
Holy shit, I’ve never seen anything sexier than her in her element.
“I guess visitors don’t usually get this tour,” I murmur, letting the heavy door ease shut behind me, cocooning us in quiet.
“Definitely not,” she says with a soft smile. “This is invite-only.”
I glance around, trying to absorb the silence and the way the air feels different here. It’s heavier with all the secrets and stories around us.
“This is where the real stories live, isn’t it?” I ask, my voice lower now, afraid that anything louder would break the spell.
She turns to face me. There’s surprise in her eyes, maybebecause I get it. “Exactly. This is where I come to remember what matters.”
I want to ask her a dozen more questions about what she’s found here and what it’s like to touch things that lived long before either of us were born. But I keep quiet, letting her lead us further.
She unlocks one of the lower cabinets, and pulls out a file box. She cradles it against her chest before setting it down gently on a tall work table.
“Here,” she lifts the lid with care. “Letters from 1924 by two fierce women. They were community activists, lovers, and business partners. They ran a kitchen together during the Depression. Most of their relationship was hidden. These letters are all we have.”
