Silas glares at both of them like they've just stabbed him in the back.
Felix grins at me. “Two to one. Motion carries.”
"Why, thank you. I'll be happy to join then," I say, matching Felix's smile while holding Silas’s gaze. Not only will this kill the boredom, but annoying Silas is an excellent bonus. "Let's go."
He mutters something under his breath that sounds like “unbelievable,” but he doesn’t argue.
We head for the glass corridor. The air in the breezeway is cooler than the chalet but still worlds better than outside, where the storm is a moving white blur beyond the windows.
Once inside the rink, Silas and Liam disappear into the locker room while Felix peels off toward a storage closet near the players’ bench, humming to himself. He digs around for a second and comes back with two pairs of black hockey skates dangling from his fingers.
“Guessing on the size,” he says, offering them out. “One of these should work.”
“Thank you,” I say, taking them.
He grins. “You're welcome. I’m gonna go change.”
He jerks a thumb toward the locker room and vanishes.
I sit and test the first pair. Too tight. Second pair: better. Snug but not painful. When I stand, my ankles wobble a little. It’s been a while.
The locker room door opens. Silas and Liam come out in full gear now, helmets in hand, blades clacking on the rubber mat.
Silas takes in my wobbly stance and lets out a short huff. “Take it easy, city,” he says. “We’re not calling a medevac in this weather.”
I ignore him, stepping onto the ice and grabbing the boards. I take one shaky glide. Then another, letting my weight settle over the blades. And just like that, old muscle memory slides in.
I let go of the wall, test my edges. I ease into a set of careful crossovers, weight shifting from blade to blade. A turn. Then I switch to backward skating, checking my position with quick glances over my shoulder.
When I look back toward the bench, Felix is just stepping onto the ice, helmet on, eyes wide.
“Oh, hell,” he says, grinning. “You actually know what you’re doing.”
Liam, already gliding past, gives a single tap of his stick against the ice as he goes by. "Pretty good, lawyer."
Silas’s eyes narrow as he pushes off hard from the boards, cutting past me with enough force that a spray of ice dusts my leggings.
I steady myself, a little smile pulling at my mouth.
Looks like I hit a nerve.
* * *
It’s been about two hours.
I mostly stay out of their drills, looping the perimeter, enjoying the simple fact that my body is moving.
But I watch them, as amazed as I was the first time.
Up close, it’s even clearer: they're like a single entity. They don't need to call for the puck; they justknowwhere the others will be.
They’re good. Really good.
Which makes their refusal to play that much more confusing. This obviously isn’t a skill issue on their part.
Eventually, they coast over to the boards near me, breathing hard, helmets off.
“You three are ridiculous,” I say. “In a good way. Whatever you’re getting paid, it’s not enough.”
