“I bet.” She gives me a commiserating smile. “Based on the way that man kisses you, I can only imagine the other things he can do with that mouth of his.”

“Ashley! Can we keep this PG? And since when have you seen Ethan kiss me?” I try to think of a time he was anything but appropriate when stopping by my work. Sure, he’s stopped by to steal a kiss, but it’s always been in private, not in front of my colleagues. In trucks on private property is one thing; in the middle of my place of employment is entirely another.

“Um … the whole hockey-watching world has seen him kiss you, live, on TV.”

I set the files down. My stomach drops and my cheeks flush. “No.”

“Oh yeah. He really laid one on you.”

I slap a palm over my mouth because I’m incapable of closing it. Last night, after the game, before I left with his parents, he kissed me. There’d been camera flashes, but I hadn’t considered that there would be video footage as well, or that it would end up splashed all over the godforsaken interweb. Up until now, any PDA caught on camera has been very family friendly. That kiss last night was not. “Oh my God.”

“Right? And then that interview. It’s totally understandable that you’re tired today. I tried to give you the easiest cases this morning.”

“Thanks.” I’m genuinely grateful but still so confused. “What interview are you referring to?”

Ashley frowns. “You didn’t see it?”

“Uh, no. I didn’t even know there was one.” Ethan didn’t mention an interview, although there wasn’t much talking last night, apart from his initial apology.

“I have it bookmarked. It’s so sweet.”

She pulls up a hockey blog on the computer, scanning the area to make sure no one is around before she hits Play. She lowers the volume, the sound of cheering fans far too loud not to draw attention.

“Ethan! Ethan! Can you tell us about your girlfriend? Rumor has it you’re high school sweethearts!”

“Ethan! How’d you feel about your performance on the ice tonight?”

“Ethan! Is this the year Minnesota is going to bring the Cup home?”

The questions keep flying, and Ethan holds up a hand, pointing to one sportscaster. “I’m glad I can be an asset to my team this season. I’m proud to be back home and playing well.”

“What do you attribute your success to this season?”

Ethan ducks his head and rubs the back of his neck. His hair is damp, curling at the ends. He runs his fingers through it, making a mess. “Great teammates, a fantastic coach, and serious determination all help, as well as a little bit of luck.”

“Do you have any superstitions? Anything you do before a game? Rituals?”

“Where do you think that luck comes from, Ethan?” another reporter shouts.

His head whips around, seeking out the asker of the last question. “Lilah.” It’s the first and only word out of his mouth.

My skin prickles, but I’m not sure if it’s in a good way or not. A volley of questions follows that’s hard to keep track of.

“Is Lilah your girlfriend?”

“Is Lilah the woman who was here tonight? Where is she now?”

“You laid one hell of a kiss on her!” Several catcalls follow that remark.

“Would you call her your good luck charm?”

Ethan rubs his bottom lip with his thumb. “Among other things, but yeah, definitely.”

“Does Lilah know she’s a factor in how well you play?”

“Is she part of your pregame ritual?” one saucy reporter asks.

Ethan laughs, maybe a little high on the win and the attention. “I don’t rub her like a genie in a bottle, if that’s what you’re getting at, but I see her before every home game, and I talk to her before every away one.”

“And you think she’s the key to your successful season?”

Ethan shrugs but smiles. “Every game she’s been at has been a success. I play better when I know she’s with me.”

“Isn’t that the sweetest?” Ashley sighs.

“Yeah, totally.” Except sweet doesn’t seem like the right word. I want to be flattered, but the reality is, I’m not sure I am—not the way it’s intended. Because if what Ethan is saying is true, if he believes I’m some kind of charm that’s making him play better, how much of what’s happening between us is real, and how much is based on superstition and pregame rituals? He’s carried them through his entire career, and he’s had them since high school rep hockey, and back then I was a part of it, too. Even if it is authentic, how am I supposed to cope with being the center of his success?

Panic makes my chest tighten, like I’m trapped in a small space with no exit. What happens if the team shits the bed come playoffs? What if the pressure is too much and it all falls apart, or they don’t even make it into the first series, let alone past it? Will that be on me? Will he harbor resentment? Will I feel some level of culpability, especially if I can’t be there to attend games, to give him what he needs and be what he needs? But what about what I need? How much of myself am I supposed to give up?

In an instant I’m transported back in time, to those nights when Ethan would stop by to see me before a game for a good luck kiss. Or when he’d beg me to come to a practice, saying he played better when I was there.