The locker room hums. It’s the first home game after a long stretch of away games. Tape is tearing, blades are scraping, bass thudding through the speakers. The smell of sweat and cedar polish, the pre-game ritual of half chaos, half religion. When I reach my stall, I stop dead.
The ring sits on my stick tape. A Post-it folded beneath it.
Proof no longer required. Thank you for playing along. —J
Of course she gave it back. That was the plan: fake engagement, real ring, return when done. Clean.
Then why does it feel like she just handed me back my heart?
I don’t touch it. I can’t.
“Yo, Alaska,” Tanner calls. “You in there? You’ve been having a staring contest with your?—”
My fist closes fast around the ring. “What?”
He blinks. Dmitri glances away, respectful in a way that makes my ribs ache.
“Music up,” Novak says to nobody, too brightly. Bass climbs. Coach yells about details. Everyone adjusts to the new gravity.
After shoving the ring into the inside pocket of my suit coat, I keep my head down, lace my skates, my focus locked on theknots. It’s enough to numb the thought. If I keep moving, I don’t have to think. If I keep moving, I don’t see her face streaked in tears, the way she looked at me the last time I saw her.
Then Tanner, always one joke too far, “Hey, remember that dance video? Kane and Joy? Man, that one had views. I’m still recovering.”
Finn laughs. “Our media girl’s got moves.”
“Moves?” Tanner scoffs. “Try show-stopping hardware. I mean, good for her, good for team morale, right?”
The laughter spikes again. “Hard to unsee that girl without that oversized hoodie.”
I’m on my feet before he finishes, stick clattering to the floor, heat roaring in my chest. “You better unsee it if you want to keep your teeth, asshole.”
The air goes razor-thin. Tanner’s grin falters. Dmitri mutters, “Uh-oh. Bear angry.”
Finn whistles low. “More like our boy scored.”
I glare at him. “Keep poking, O’Reilly, and you’ll need a new wrist for your slap shot.”
“Jesus, Kane,” Novak says under his breath. “Who lit you up?”
The door opens. Joy steps in, camera rig balanced on one shoulder, hair in a messy twist, Defenders lanyard at her throat. She’s in her uniform—baggy jeans, oversized hoodie—and my pulse detonates.
She doesn’t notice the tension. She’s in work mode, scanning for light angles, checking battery levels. “Okay, quick clips before warm-up,” she says briskly. “We’re doing a thirty-second hype reel: ‘First Home Game of the Year.’ Dmitri, you’re leading with the glove tap. Finn, you’re on the stick flip?—”
Her gaze snags on me. For a second, everything stops—the sound, the air, the distance. Just finding me across the room. Nosmile. No flinch. Only cool recognition. She’s cataloging an asset. No mention of the ring.
Then she breaks it, focusing back on her iPad. “Let’s go, boys. Two minutes. Then I’m out.”
Finn leans toward Tanner, low. “You think she heard that?”
Tanner swallows hard. “Pretty sure she felt it.”
Joy moves through the space, camera up, posture perfect. The guys play along, back in motion but quieter now, suddenly remembering what professionalism means when a girl is in the room.
She stops in front of me last.
“Kane,” she says, tone flat. “Tunnel walk B-roll. Helmet on. No talking.”
I’m already up, grabbing my lid. I can’t even manage a yes.
