As the game went on, the third period hit like a storm.
The score was close—too close—and every muscle in my body was wound tight like I was the one skating out there instead of sitting on cold bleachers with buttery popcorn grease on my fingers. Ryans looked like fire on the ice, sweat darkening his hair, jersey clinging to his shoulders as he fought through every shift.
June, on the other hand, continued to be the picture of chaos beside me.
“I swear, number twelve just winked at me,” she whispered urgently, clutching my sleeve.
I arched a brow. “Pretty sure he was wincing after getting checked into the boards.”
She ignored me. “No, no. It was a wink. I’m marking my calendar. This is the start of our love story.”
“June,” I deadpanned, “you’ve said that about four different players
