Plate of snacks in one hand and an unopened beer in the other, Ian sent a pitying look her way. “Want a beer?”

She palmed her six-year chip, her attention yanked away from the possibilities of the third period. “Nah.”

“Want something else?” He glanced back at the well-stocked bar behind the buffet table. “This place has pretty much everything.”

“Ginger ale, please.”

It was her go-to. Carry around a glass of that and people assumed it was spiked. It wasn’t that she was hiding her sobriety but more that she dreaded having to deal with the other person’s reaction. It usually fell into one of three categories. One, pity. Two, scorn. Three, the come-on-you-don’t-look-like-an-alcoholic-just-have-one-drink disbelief.

Ian nodded and grabbed an old-fashioned glass. “With?”

She let out a small sigh and braced for the conversation she’d been hoping to avoid. “Ice.”

He hesitated for half a second and swiveled around to face her. “You don’t drink?”

And there it was. Her gut knotted in anticipation of how he’d react. It shouldn’t matter—she barely knew Ian—but somehow it did.

The reality of that fact had her lifting her chin in defiance as she looked him straight in the eye, ready to take the metaphorical hit. “Not anymore.”

It was easy to spot the moment the lightbulb went off. The slight wrinkling of his forehead and the quick nod. “Sorry.”

No pity. No scorn. Definitely no come-get-drunk-anyway disbelief. It was more of just straight acceptance.

Ian handed her the ginger ale. “How long?”

“Six years.”

He took a bite off a carrot stick and shot her a long, contemplative look while he crunched. “And how long has The Biscuit been around? It’s been about that, hasn’t it?”

“Yeah, close to six years.” Yeah, that brain of his put that together quick. But that had to mean— She gasped. “Are you a secret reader?”

“Maybe.” The tips of his ears turned pink, and he hustled back toward their seats.

What? That couldn’t be. She knew her stats. Most of her visitors engaged; that’s what made her site special enough to gain the Ice Knights’ attention, which meant…

She hurried as fast as she could with a ginger ale filled nearly to the brim down the five stadium steps to the suite’s private row of seats and sat down next to Ian. “Have you commented?”

He snapped another carrot in half with one bite and ignored her.

Oh no, this wasn’t going away that easily. No. Way. She cleared her throat with a dramatic “ahem.”

Letting out a long-suffering sigh, he kept his gaze on the ice as the final period started. “I have not commented as myself.”