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The game has barely started, but I can’t help myself. I just love riling up rival fans.

Let’s take the guy I’m currently arguing with, for example. PhillyFlameFan8736—unique name there; well done, bro—is claiming that the Flames are better than the Vipers and is shooting everyone down who knows otherwise.

I’m sure his heart lies with his team, but he’s categorically wrong. The Flames have finished in the bottom half of their division for as long as I can remember. They haven’t seen a single piece of hardware for well over a decade, and they’re unlikely to be doing so anytime soon.

Yes, they have a couple of decent players they’ve traded for in the hope of fixing the issue, but things don’t improve magically overnight just because you secure a top player. Teams need more than that to take them all the way. Not that this moron would understand that. Nor numbers or hard facts, it would seem. And oh, how I love throwing stats into a conversation to cut down anyone who’s wrong.

It’s a hobby that has driven my sister mad for years. She doesn’t understand why I can’t just enjoy the game without getting involved in the chatter. But as far as I’m concerned, it’s half the fun. Especially when I have more information locked up in my brain than most fans out there. And I don’t mean that in a derogatory way. I just know for a fact that the majority don’t stay up half the night pulling stats from every team in the league and plugging them into statistical models that I’ve been perfecting since I was fourteen. Something else Sienna doesn’t grasp. But that’s fine. I don’t need anyone to understand my need to find patterns, strengths, and weaknesses in numbers. I do it because I have to, much like a writer needs to get their characters out, or a musician needs to sing. It’s a compulsion, an addiction. And I love it.

“Just watch the game. We’ve got the best seats in the house⁠—”

“Barn,” I correct.

She rolls her eyes at me. “Whatever. We’ve got the best seats, and you’ve got your nose in your cell.”

I pocket it, for now, and turn my attention back to the ice.

“Maybe you should stop distracting me then,” I tease.

“Ugh, you’re a pain in my ass.”

“And yet, you wouldn’t change me for the world.”

She mutters something under her breath, but I don’t hear it—nor am I paying attention—because at that exact moment, the Vipers have a line change and a certain someone jumps over the boards.

His huge, muscular body glides across the ice in a way that makes my head spin. It amazes me that guys his size can be as elegant as ballet dancers one moment and as brutal as MMA fighters the next, and Cooper Nash is one of the best at balancing that line.

He’s mesmerizing to watch. His movements are fluid and seamless, as if his very first steps on the planet happened on ice. But alongside that, his power and strength are mind-blowing.

Okay, sure. His stats don’t quite match up to some of the others out there tonight, but I suspect that’s mainly due to his previous team. Now, I’m not saying it’s going to be any better for him here. Everyone knows that his trade was controversial. Nash and Rivers have been rivals since college, but no one knows why.

In fact, no one seems to know anything about the elusive ex-Vancouver enforcer. And I should know. I’ve spent the past six weeks trying to dig up any little bit of information I can find on him after he shocked the shit out of me on New Year’s Eve.

I shake my head, still unable to fully believe that those few moments together actually happened.

If I didn’t know better, I’d say that I hit my head sometime after saying goodbye to Darcy and bumping into Nash, because there’s no way that man kissed me at midnight.

No fucking way.

Only. He did.

It was real.

My lips tingle now just like they did back then, and I’m still just as stunned.

I don’t realize I’ve lifted my fingers to touch them until the heat of my sister’s stare burns into the side of my face.

“You okay, Gare?” she asks as one of Philly’s wingers whips around the back of our net before coming up against Mororov, who isn’t taking no for an answer.

He’s only been on the second line since Brody was traded to Vancouver. To start with, I had my reservations about Coach Watson’s decision to move him up. But I won’t lie, I’ve been impressed with Mororov’s determination and ability to work alongside Nash, which has got to be a fucking challenge. I don’t need to look at my hockey models to know that Nash is up there with the most penalties and minutes in the box. Being his partner must be a fucking nightmare. I guess the only silver lining about him joining the Vipers is that Rivers isn’t a D-man. Forcing them together on the same line would have been a disaster waiting to happen. It’s not often you see players on the same team going up against each other, but I’d have put money on that happening if they were partners.

A cheer erupts around us as Mororov clears the puck, shooting it toward Sanderson, who is open and waiting.

I don’t get to see what happens next, though, because the moment I glance back to see where Nash is, my eyes connect with his.

I swear, it would be less of a blow if he physically ran into me.

Okay, maybe not. The guy is built like a brick shithouse. He would flatten me in an instant, and I’m not exactly small.