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Skylar Engelhardt/ Lark Angel

I buy Mav’s jersey at one of the concession stands and buy Lo one too. Not that I’m thrilled to wear his favorite number—seventy-one. It’s strictly an internal happy dance.

Ice hockey arenas have a specific cold smell, and it brings a flood of memories. Not all are good. The music is blaring, and the chatter of the crowd sounds thunderous.

“He won’t even know we’re here,” Lo complains for the hundredth time.

“But I’ll text him after and he’ll be happy. Showing my support is more important than making a big deal about it.” I check our tickets and figure out the best entry point to the stands. Did I reschedule my entire night to watch him play in person? Yup. Sure did. The jury’s out on whether I’m an idiot or not.

Our seats are decent for last minute. It’s early enough that season ticket holders sometimes sell their tickets. We’re in the first row of the second level and have a great view of the opposing team’s goal, well at least for the first and third periods.

“What’s your man do?”

“He’s the second-line center. He takes the face-offs.” Never did I imagine explaining hockey to Lo. Lo does not look impressed.

I dragged him here early to watch the pre-skate and stretching.

“Okay.” Lo takes in the guys doing hip stretches. “I understand the appeal. You were holding out on me.” He side-eyes me with a smirk.

“It gets better,” I warn him, and he’s consumed with their warm-up.

“I didn’t give hockey a fair shot,” he says, as the players exit the ice. “Tell me more.”

I explain shift changes, face-offs, and the different zones in hockey. Before I’m ready, the puck drops. There is no reason to be nervous; Mav isn’t even on for the first shift.

Lo cringes as two players hit the boards. “Isn’t that a foul or illegal or something?”

“That’s standard.” There’s a shift change, and when Mav is out there, I can’t answer Lo’s questions. Mav has stolen my attention. I always thought he was great, but I’m in awe of him now. He has great chemistry with his linemates, and they work well together. He gets a shot off, but it’s deflected.

He’s on the ice right before the end of the first period, and he scores. I’m jumping up and down like a maniac and screaming. His team comes in for a group hug, and after, he does a half lap, pumping his stick at the crowd.

His eyes catch mine, and my knees give as I collapse into my seat. It’s surreal. Out of everyone in the crowd, he found me. Mav’s surprised to see me and loses his rhythm as he skates by, but then his face breaks into a wide grin and he blows me a kiss.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Lo asks.

“Not a damn thing.” I stand because the period is over and Mav’s team is leaving the ice. “We have almost twenty minutes before the game restarts. Do you want a drink or food?”

“Nah. Everyone will hit the concessions now. Rookie mistake.” He gives my shoulder a nudge.

I answer all his questions that I previously ignored and love how invested Lo is in the game, ignoring the fact that I dragged him here under protest.

“Excuse me, are you Skylar?” a well-dressed man asks, touching my arm.

I flinch with a yelp and instinctively grip Lo’s arm. It takes a second to recover and nod.

“Please follow me.” He leads us through the packed concourse to an elevator with security guards. “Sorry, we weren’t informed you were coming. I can show you where the family room is so you can meet Maverick after the game.”

“The family room?” I squeak.

“We call it that, but it’s also for significant others. All the WAGs use it.” I stare at him dumbfounded, so he clarifies. “You know, wives and girlfriends, or in this team’s case, boyfriends.” His smile drops. “Oh no. Are you the wrong Skylar? Mav said to grab his boyfriend.”

Lo speaks for me. “You got the right guy. Lar…Skylar thought he was going to surprise Maverick, but you got him first.” Lo laughs when he says my given name. “We’re going to the family room now?”

“Mr. Dimon, our general manager, asked me to bring you to his suite. If you ask me, he owes you an apology for the airport hangar incident, but you didn’t hear that from me. No one listens to the PR director,” he says cheerily. “I’m Finn, by the way.”

I swallow hard; my head’s a thousand pounds as I tip it forward and struggle to bring it upright. Mav told Finn I’m his boyfriend, and they’re going to give us access to private spaces with no questions asked? The weight in my head lifts, leaving me unexpectedly lightheaded, could be from being giddy, excited, or overwhelmed. Mav called me his boyfriend.

Finn seems nice, but Mr. Dimon will probably throw me out after my less-than-polite comments. My legs go numb.