I Funded His Hockey Crown, And He Gave It To Her

"Miss? We're locking the main doors in ten minutes."

I smoothed the hem of my emerald slip dress, keeping my gaze anchored to the brass entrance of the dining room. "Just another five minutes, please."

"The kitchen shut off the grills an hour ago." The waiter cleared the melted ice bucket from the white linen cloth. "Your champagne is room temperature."

"Leave it," I said. "He's coming."

"You said that at eight o'clock, ma'am. It's past midnight."

"Today is November fourteenth," I said, meeting his eyes. "He promised five years ago. He set this date himself."

"People promise a lot of things when dinner is free." The waiter sighed, tucking his tray under an arm. "Should I box the steak?"

"No. Don't touch it."

Five years. I had patched his torn practice jerseys when he was an unsigned nobody riding buses across the minors. I had covered his gym dues with my overtime checks. When doctors warned that his fractured collarbone might end his career before it even started, I sat beside his hospital cot, icing his shoulder through the night.

*Once I make the starting lineup, Nora,* he used to whisper, his forehead pressed against my collarbone in the dark of our tiny basement rental. *Once my name is on that marquee, you won't ever hide again. I'm putting a ring on your finger where the whole arena can see it.*

My phone buzzed against the table.

I snatched it up, my thumb flying across the glass. "Blake?"

Nothing. No text. No missed calls. Just a push notification from a sports gossip blog.

Then another.

Then twenty more in a roaring cascade of alerts.

"Miss?" The waiter took half a step backward, squinting down at his own screen. "Is your boyfriend... Blake Mercer?"

My throat tightened. "Why?"

"Look at the national feed."

My thumb tapped the glowing headline.

*NHL SUPERSTAR BLAKE MERCER GOES PUBLIC: ICE HOCKEY’S GOLDEN BOY INTRODUCES SUPERMODEL SIENNA COLE AS HIS FIANCÉE.*

The photograph filled my screen. Blake wore the custom charcoal suit I had picked out from the tailor last Tuesday. His arm wrapped securely around Sienna Cole’s bare waist, pulling her flush against his side. He was smiling down at her with an easy, radiant warmth—an open adoration he had spent five years telling me was too dangerous to show in public.

*Mercer has finalized the purchase of the ultra-luxury Riverside Terrace penthouse,* the caption read. *A private love nest gifted to Cole ahead of their upcoming winter wedding.*

A dry, fractured laugh tore out of my throat.

"Miss?" the waiter whispered. "Are you alright?"

"Riverside Terrace," I muttered.

"Ma'am?"

"The penthouse." I pushed back from the table, my knuckles whitening against the edge of the wood. "I picked the marble tiles. I took out three personal loans to make the down payment because his manager said an active athlete shouldn't show property debt before contract renegotiation."

"I... I can call a cab—"

"I painted the patio railings myself," I said, voice rising, sharp and jagged. "I didn't sleep for two weeks so the paint wouldn't streak."

I jabbed Blake's private number into the keypad and held the phone to my ear.

*Ring.*

*Ring.*

*The subscriber you are trying to reach has restricted incoming calls.*

"Pick up," I snarled at the dead dial tone. "Pick up the fucking phone, Blake!"

*Click.*

I dropped the device onto the table, grabbed my clutch, and walked straight past the waiter.

"Ma'am, the bill!" he called out.

"Charge it to Blake Mercer’s corporate account," I threw over my shoulder. "He has plenty of cash to throw away tonight."

The heavy glass doors of the restaurant swung open into the cold autumn night. Before my heels could touch the concrete of the plaza, a white glare exploded in my face.

"There she is!" a man shouted.

"Over here! Turn toward the light!"

"Is it true you've been stalking him since his rookie year?"

Flashes flared in a blinding wall, five, ten, twenty cameras crowding the sidewalk. Microphones wrapped in foam were thrust within inches of my lips. Pedestrians stopped, gathering into a dense, jeering semi-circle.

"What are you doing?" I raised an arm to shield my eyes. "Get those away from me!"

"Are you Nora Finch?" a reporter barked, shoving an iPhone in my face. "Do you deny trespassing on Blake Mercer’s private residence last weekend?"

"Trespassing?" My voice cracked. "I live there! My name is on the mortgage!"

"She's still lying!" a girl in the crowd yelled, lifting her phone to stream. "Look at her! Shameless bitch!"

"Blake just went public with Sienna Cole!" an older woman spat, glaring at me with disgust. "You're a pathetic side piece trying to ruin a real engagement!"

"I've been with him for five years!" I shouted into the blinding lights. "Five years! Ask him! Call him right now!"

"Why would he call a lunatic?" a man sneered.

"Look up!" someone in the back yelled. "It's on the jumbotron!"

I froze.

Above the bustling intersection, the towering curved screen of the city square flickered, cutting away from commercial ads to an emergency press conference broadcast.

Sienna Cole stood at a podium, tears glistening on her perfect cheeks, a diamond ring sparkling beneath the studio spotlights.

"I tried to stay quiet," Sienna’s voice boomed across the entire plaza through the surround-sound speakers. "I really did. But this woman... she won't stop."

The screen cut to a surveillance still of me carrying groceries up the service elevator of the Riverside penthouse.

"She tracks Blake's travel schedule," Sienna sobbed, dabbing her eyes with a silk handkerchief. "She slips into our building. She leaves threatening notes on our door, claiming Blake promised to marry her. I am terrified to stay in my own home. Blake bought me this apartment so I would feel safe, but she follows us everywhere."

"Liars," I choked out, staring up at the giant screen. "You lying whores..."

"She's sick!" someone shouted from the circle enclosing me.

"Get out of our city!"

"Stop harassing our team captain!"

"Blake didn't want you, trash!"

The crowd surged forward, shoulder to shoulder, cutting off the street. Hands reached out, yanking at my purse strap, clawing at my coat.

"Don't touch me!" I screamed, slapping at the grabbing fingers. "Back off!"

"You think you can break them up?" a voice barked from the darkness behind the cameras. "Take this, you dirty home-wrecker!"

A streak of green glass spun through the glare of the flashbulbs.

*Crack.*

The impact hit my left cheekbone with sickening force. The bottle shattered, spraying cheap beer and jagged shards across my face.

Pain sliced through my skin like a razor.

"Holy shit!" a reporter yelled. "She's bleeding!"

"Back up! Back up, everyone!"

Warm crimson dripped from my jaw, soaking into the emerald collar of my dress. The shouts, the sirens in the distance, the blaring voice of the supermodel on the screen—all of it merged into a single, roaring hum that filled my ears.

My knees folded under me.

"Blake..." The name scraped through my lips as my hands scraped across the pavement.

The city lights smeared into streaks of white and black, and the ground rushed up to take me.