Page 66 of Playing Her Game

"Then I'll book a flight tomorrow." No hesitation. "We can resolve this situation together."

"There's nothing to resolve."

"Anna." Her voice sharpens. "You cannot throw away your entire future because Lenzin fell in love with someone else. This is exactly why arranged marriages exist. Feelings change. Security doesn't."

My throat closes. “I’m glad Lenzin loves Hildy. Hell, I do too. They are perfect for each other. That I'm happy for them. Maybe one day I want someone who looks at me the way they look at each other, not a contract dressed up as commitment. Don't come here."

"Then come home."

We're silent for a moment, locked in the standoff that defines our relationship now.

"I have to go," I tell her. "I'll call you later."

"Anna—"

I end the call before she can finish. My hands shake slightly as I set the phone down.

I'm still staring at the wall when someone knocks. I check the time—barely past four—and open the door to find Gabe Navarro grinning at me, his hair pushed back with a headband, green eyes bright with mischief.

"Rez sent me to make sure you're not bored."

I raise an eyebrow. "Did he."

"Absolutely not." Gabe's grin widens. "He told me to stay away from you. Which is how I know you need rescuing."

Despite everything, I almost smile. "From what?"

"Sitting here alone while there's a perfectly good hockey game happening." He leans against the doorframe. "I know a back entrance. No crowds, no cameras, no fans who might recognize you from Brooklyn."

I hesitate. After my mother's call, the idea of sitting here alone makes my chest tight.

"Come on," Gabe says. "I'll even give you a jersey."

"I'm not wearing Rez's number. People will see me, figure out who I am."

"I wouldn’t have you on my arm with his number." He hands me a bag. "You're getting a sixty-eight." I pull the jersey out of the bag. "Now I usually say that and follow it up with, 'You blow me, I'll owe you one’, but that's not where we're at. So, feel free to use that line on our man later."

I just blink.

"Shit, you know that 68 plus one is⁠—"

"Oh my God, you are exactly how I imagined you'd be after those texts." I laugh.

"Well, giddy up, let’s get a move on. Our VIP box is not gonna fill itself."

The heavy door clicks shut behind us, sealing off the roar of the concourse. The back entrance works exactly as promised: a dimly lit corridor that smells of stale popcorn and industrial cleaner. We move through the staff-only labyrinth, past stacks of folded chairs and pallets of soda syrup. No one notices us slip through the service corridors into the arena's private sections—not the woman counting cash in the booth, not the security guard scrolling on his phone.

"This is a terrible idea," I tell him, my voice echoing off concrete walls.

"The best ones always are." He grins, pulling me forward.

I look down at the jersey swallowing my frame. The fabric is soft from wear, pilled at the elbows, smelling faintly of athletic detergent and something clean like winter air. We emerge onto the steep incline of section 107 as warmups end and the Zamboni makes its final pass. The energy in Ignite Arena pulses through the concrete and steel beneath our feet, thousands of voices layering into white noise punctuated by sharp shouts and blaring air horns.

The game starts fast. Chicago controls the puck immediately, moving it with surgical precision that suggests fury barely leashed beneath their calm passes. Then Rez looks up into the stands during a line change, scanning section by section.

His gaze finds me, and then the number 68 stretched across my chest.

Gabe catches his attention from beside me and blows him an elaborate kiss.