The arena pulsed with energy, but all I could focus on was him. Nate Hawkins, my husband, out on the ice, putting on a show—just for me.

He wasn’t just warming up. No, he was wramping up, his body practically pounding into the ice with every powerful stride. His skates cut deep, sending sharp sprays of ice flying. His stick slapped against the rink, each boom deliberate, calculated—like he wanted me to feel it. And I did.

Then that smirk. That damn smirk.

He caught my stare through the glass, dark eyes glinting with mischief. He knew exactly what he was doing. Every flex, every sharp stop, every slap shot that sent the puck rocketing into the net—it was all to get under my skin.

And it was working.

He skated closer, slow, teasing. Then, just as he passed, he dragged his stick against the ice before slamming it against the boards—right in front of me. Bang. "feel that baby?" , he says shouting, laughing, as he skates back.

I swallowed hard. He tilted his head, gaze locked onto mine, smirk deepening.