Chapter 71: I Was Having Fun Until I Realized It
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It had been seven years. That thought hit me hard and fast, seven years since I’d been near a hockey game. Years since life had enough breathing room for things like this, an evening free of job obligations, or bills hanging over my head, or the constant low-grade anxiety of someone doing mental calculations in the back of their mind.
A memory bubble popped up before I could steer my thoughts elsewhere.
My dad in the upper deck of a much smaller arena, not nearly as impressive as this one, leaping up for a play he totally misread, shouting with all his conviction about a call that had gone down differently than he thought. I laughed at him.
We shared a terrible hot dog, pretending to be hockey experts when we barely understood the icing rule. The blissful, uncomplicated joy of being a kid, cold, and happy in a crowd.
That nostalgia hit me harder than I expected, settling in a weight behind my sternum...
Dad...I really want you to get better. I can’t do this without you. I don’t want to be alone...
"What’s wrong?"
Damien’s voice shattered the moment. I blinked, and the memory faded, bringing me back to the present, the lights, the crowd, and Damien, standing beside me, watching my face with that intense focus he had when he switched from pretending to be neutral to genuinely paying attention.
Not teasing, not smirking, just focused, the way he did when he thought something mattered.
I forced a grin. "Nothing."
One of his dark eyebrows lifted, full of skepticism from someone who’s too good at reading my face. "That was a truly terrible lie."
"Good thing I’m not trying to impress you."
His mouth curved slightly at the corner. "Come on." He nodded toward the private entrance. "We’ll miss warm-ups."
The VIP entrance nearly gave me a heart attack.
A separate security line, with people confirming ticket holders by name. A private elevator with actual carpeting. A staff member appeared the moment we showed up, guiding us seamlessly like it was routine, some kind of privilege that was so thorough it felt like a different world from the regular arena experience.
I was still the guy who compared instant noodle prices at the store. The guy who once took twenty minutes to decide between buying shampoo or conditioner because I wasn’t sure I could afford both that week.
And here I was in a carpeted VIP elevator at a hockey venue, feeling like the universe was playing a trick on me.
"This is ridiculous," I said.
Damien handed our tickets to the attendant, a polished, professional woman who immediately straightened up at the sight of him, recognition lighting her face.
"Welcome, Mr. Lockwood."
I turned to Damien. "They know you."
"I’ve been here before."
"Of course you have." I looked around. At the separate lounge. At the private bar. At the sheer existence of it all. The thought popped out before I could throttle it: "Do you own this arena?"
Damien laughed, the genuine kind that was refreshing. "No."
I studied him for a beat. "But you could."
His expression didn’t confirm or deny, which was honestly the most unsettling response possible. I decided to stop digging into questions that could lead places I wasn’t ready for.
"If you secretly own this place," I said as the elevator doors swung open, "I’m going to need free snacks."
He looked at me with either laughter or genuine consideration. "I can get you free snacks anyway."
The ice gleamed below us, brilliantly white under the arena lights, almost unreal in its brightness. The players were already moving through warm-ups, the fluid choreography of athletes who had done this thousands of times, their bodies no longer needing to think about it.
The seats around us were wider than my desk chair, cushioned in a dark fabric that probably cost more per square foot than my rent, each one had a perfect sightline to the ice. It felt almost like you were standing directly on it.
There was a private server nearby. Just... there. Ready to help. I stood beside our seats, taking it all in.
"You’re kidding," I said.
"I’m not."
"Damn, these are our seats?"
"Yes."
"Specifically, that we’ll be sitting in. Tonight."
"Oliver."
"Are you secretly a prince?"
"You’re going to be disappointed again."
I dropped into the seat and, as I had feared, it turned out to be the most comfortable seat I’d ever sat in, which posed a problem because now I knew this kind of comfort existed, and I’d have to go back to regular seats later.
"I hate everything about this," I mumbled, feeling too comfy.
Damien took a seat beside me, and something in his demeanor shifted, less teasing and something quieter took its place. "Oliver."
I glanced over at him.
"You belong here just as much as anyone else."
His words came straightforwardly, without any fluff, and hit me where I was undefended. They didn’t feel rehearsed or careful, just a truth said plainly, the way Damien sometimes spoke when he wasn’t worried about keeping his distance.
It made it really hard to brush off.
I did my usual thing and deflected anyway, because that’s what I was good at. "That’s blatantly false, and we both know it."
He held my gaze a moment longer than necessary. "Trust me," he said.
I looked away, focusing on the ice, the players, anything but Damien staring at me like that, and the game began, giving me a temporary escape from all my thoughts.
I had forgotten how impossible it was to watch hockey passively.
The speed of it, the way plays happened and dissolved in seconds, the sharp crack of a good shot, it wired itself into my nervous system before my brain could catch up.
By the end of the first period, I had stood up three times, shouted things I wouldn’t repeat in polite company, and grabbed Damien’s arm during a penalty shot, not realizing until I looked down that my hand was there.
I quickly removed it like I touched a boiling kettle, he smiled but he didn’t say a word.
Which was somehow even worse.
"COME ON, MAN!" I was up again without even realizing it, watching a play unfold near the goal, tracking the puck as it moved in that specific way it does when something is about to happen, and then the shot went wide, causing the whole arena to groan in disappointment. "THE FUCK’S WRONG WITH YOU?!"
I sank back into my seat, feeling personally wronged.
"That was robbery," I declared.
Damien remained silent, I glanced over at him.
He wasn’t focused on the game; he was looking at me with that expression he sometimes wore when he thought I wasn’t noticing...open and attentive, carrying something I couldn’t quite name.
Something in his gaze lingered, patient and deep, as if it had been there for a while.
"What is it now?" I asked.
His gaze drifted back to the ice. "Nothing."
Very suspicious. I made a note to revisit that later.
By the first intermission, I was reluctantly grappling with the uncomfortable truth that I was having more fun than I had in months. This annoyed me for the obvious reason: it meant that Damien had been right, and I didn’t want to encourage that.
The arena lights dimmed a bit. People were moving and stretching, the crowd noise shifting from focused to ambient.
I leaned back in my seat. Stared at the ice. Just breathed.
"Okay," I said.
Damien glanced over.
I sighed, giving up on a stance I’d held onto for too long. "Fine, you were right. Are you happy now?"
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𝔞𝔲𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔯’𝔰 𝔯𝔞𝔪𝔟𝔩𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰
bonus Chapter because you’ve all been so good to me💕 thank you all for the encouragement and support 🙏
please keep it coming!!
aaannd I’ve got a little something in the next Chapter for you guys *evil laughs*😈