“Open it.”
I opened the bag and gasped, slowly pulling out a jersey that appeared to have been autographed by the whole team.
“If it makes you feel any better, I didn’t pay the team for it,” he said. “I made a donation to the team’s charity of choice, and they did this for me. Which I did for you.”
“Remy.” Tears puddled in my eyes because there was zero chance I was going to refuse this gift. I loved the Vipers and had never been able to afford a jersey. To have it signed by the whole team was incredibly thoughtful and I threw my arms around his neck. “Thank you.”
“Don’t cry.” He wrapped his strong arms around me. “Do you like it?”
“No.” I shook my head. “I love it.”
“Good.” He stroked my cheek. “Put it on.”
I yanked off my hoodie and pulled the jersey over my head, looking down in excitement. “This is amazing.”
“Look at the rest of what’s in the bag.”
I dug through the contents and found a travel coffee mug, team socks, a team calendar, and a commemorative puck, also signed by someone, but I didn’t recognize the signature.
“This is too much,” I whispered. “Why would they do this?”
“Because I made a huge donation and asked them to,” he said, pulling me up against him again. “I wanted tonight to be memorable.”
“Every night with you is memorable.”
Our eyes met and he kissed me. Right there on the concourse, like no one else in the world existed, his hands circling my waist. I wrapped one arm around his neck since the other was holding the shopping bag, and I kissed him back like he was mine. Like this was more than just a short-term distraction in my very mundane life.
“I don’t know where you learned to kiss,” I whispered against his mouth, “but you could probably open a school or something and women everywhere would thank you.”
He chuckled. “My hands are pretty full these days, but we can talk about it.” He looped his arm around my shoulders and we headed toward our seats.
“Mr. Knight! Mr. Knight!” A young woman who didn’t look a day over twenty came running over to us. “I’m Beth Bennett with the Vipers. Mr. Tiffoli, the team owner, would love it if you joined him in his box tonight.” She was out of breath, as if she’d run to find us, and Remy glanced at me.
“Do you want to? I have pretty awesome seats.”
“It’s up to you,” I said softly.
“Mr. Tiffoli said he very much wanted to meet you.” Beth seemed a little anxious and I squeezed Remy’s hand.
I hated that our indecision was stressing her out. “It’s fine,” I told Remy. “We can go up to the box for a while and then go to our seats.”
Remy nodded and laced his fingers through mine as we followed Beth to a private elevator. We went up a few levels and exited on the concourse where the suites and private boxes were located.
“I’m probably going to have to talk shop for a while,” he whispered against my ear. “But I’ll try to keep it short.”
“It’s fine. I love hockey and once the game starts, I won’t even remember who you are.” I laughed and he shook his head, grinning back at me.
God, he was hot.
“Remington Knight!” A short man with a shock of white hair and a loud, booming voice addressed us the moment we stepped inside the box and Remy immediately extended his hand.
“Mr. Tiffoli.”
Introductions were made, someone put a plate of food in my hand, and as he’d predicted, Remy was swept away with business talk. He glanced over at me a few times, but I waved him off, happy to sip a glass of chardonnay, nibble on appetizers even though we’d already eaten, and look down at the ice. Warm-ups had started and we were up here instead of down there, but it was okay. Remy had already made this game special, so I didn’t mind missing out. Especially since our regular seats were behind the home bench.
Despite what I’d told him, there was nothing that would make me forget Remington Knight. Not hockey, not the warm-ups, not even sitting behind the bench. Tonight had been epic so far, but it was far more about the man than the gifts or VIP treatment. Autographed jerseys and awesome seats were fun; Remy, on the other hand, was special. I’d stopped believing in happily-ever-after a long time ago, but if there was such a thing, the only man I could imagine it with was him.
Chapter Thirteen
Remy
* * *
Noelle loved hockey. I’d figured she was a fan, but I hadn’t expected to hear her chirping at the players, whistling louder than anyone else in the arena, or following every move like she’d written the team’s playbook. The Vipers were down 2–1 by the middle of the second period, and now that we were in our seats behind the bench, she was lit up and fully engaged. She was totally focused on what was happening on the ice.
“Seriously, Thomson?” she muttered when one of the rookies turned over the puck and Calgary almost got another goal against the Vipers.
“He’s young,” I said. “Still learning.”
“He’s a professional hockey player making…how much do rookie players make? Almost a million? Yeah, for a million dollars, he shouldn’t be making those kinds of mistakes.” She shook her head.
I chuckled. “Uh huh. Easy to say from here in the stands. Get out there in front of twenty thousand screaming fans and—”
“One. Million. Dollars.” She wiggled a finger in my face. “Give me a million dollars and I’ll make a lot less mistakes than Thomson has made tonight.”
“I’m not letting you near my rookies when I get to Fort Lauderdale,” I deadpanned.
She laughed. “Let me at them—I’ll whip them into shape.”
Somehow, I believed her and the idea of having her with me in Fort Lauderdale was interesting.
She turned back to the game, watching as Calgary stole the puck and skated toward Vancouver’s net. Vancouver’s captain glided after him, but with no real speed or hustle.
“Come on!” Noelle yelled, getting to her feet. “Are you gonna back-check at some point tonight or what?!”
I snorted out a laugh. She was hilarious, but obviously knew the game almost as well as I did. Her comments mirrored my thoughts, but as a former player, I understood the nuances of playing in front of hard-core crowds like this one, which was probably the only piece of the puzzle missing for her.
“Oh, geez, there’s Thomson again,” she sighed. “I don’t think this is going to end well.”
“How about a little encouragement for the kid?” I countered. “He’s barely shaving, making almost a million dollars a year, and his job is in front of zillions of fans all over the world. Poor kid probably hasn’t even had his dick sucked yet.”
She turned to me, her eyes wide, and we both burst out laughing. “I’m going to bet he’s getting laid on the regular, but you’re right, I should probably cut him some slack. I forget he’s only eighteen. It just seems to me that if you’re good enough to make the starting lineup at eighteen, you shouldn’t make dumb mistakes.”