“Fucking brutal,” he admitted. “But I hate to complain when you’ve been working so hard and I’ve barely seen you.”

Between his pre-season training and the start of my journalism grad program, quality time together had been scarce. It was an abrupt change from our leisurely summer, the majority of which we had spent lounging lakeside a few doors down from Dallas and Shiv, taking out the boat, and sleeping in late. Having zero real-life responsibilities to worry about had been a nice reprieve, but they’d come crashing down again in full force lately.

Plus, now that we were back in LA, and Dallas and Shiv were in Colorado, I was going through best friend withdrawal. I’d made some friends in LA, especially other girlfriends and wives from the team, but it wasn’t the same. Neither was drinking wine via video call.

“This program is intense.” I raked a hand through my hair, which I’d recently cut to shoulder-length. It still felt bizarrely short, like I was missing a limb. “It’s already kicking my butt.”

“Hey.” He placed his hand on my knee, warmth from his skin radiating through the denim fabric. “I understand the little fish, big pond feeling. But you’re there for a reason.”

“You have to say that.”

Chase had been intimidated for all of five minutes during his first NHL game. Then he skated around the ice like he owned it and had ever since.

“Doesn’t make it less true.”

Outside the window of the SUV, the freeway sped by, but I still had no idea where we were going.

“When are you going to tell me where you’re taking me?”

Chase shot me a sidelong glance, his lips tugging. “You’ll see soon enough.”

Three exits later, a huge gray structure appeared in the distance. The lettering on its oversized red sign grew clearer as we drew closer. We were headed to the same place he’d been only hours earlier.

“Are we going to the arena?”

“Skating,” he said. “Birthday tradition.”

* * *

The new arena in downtown Los Angeles—a modern architectural marvel comprised of steel and glass—had been completed two years prior.

Chase held the door open to the players’ entrance and followed behind me. The enormous facility was almost eerily quiet, save for the distant echoes of the custodial staff. He navigated us through the winding hallways like it was his second home, brought us to a stop in front of a metal door, and keyed in the pin code.

In keeping with the rest of the world-class facility, the Los Angeles Blades’ dressing room put the one at Boyd to shame. Solid wood benches filled the players’ changing area, with long windows placed high along the outside walls to let in natural light.