I let it ride longer than I should, let him burn down to the wire. Let him keep proving what I already know—that he’ll grind himself into dust just to feel like he’s worthy of my attention.
Then I move.
The soles of my shoes click against the boards as I push the gate open. I step onto the ice without skates, weight steady like I’ve done it a thousand times. His head jerks up, green eyes wide, sweat streaking his face. He looks caught, but he doesn’t stop moving. Doesn’t quit.
“Not like that,” I say.
He freezes mid-motion, panting, chest heaving under the damp cling of his shirt. “What—”
I tilt my chin at the puck. “You’re rushing. Watch your hands. Slow down. Pull the drag tighter, keep your shoulders loose. Again.”
He nods quick, like instinct, like he can’t do anything else when I give an order. His hands shake as he sets up, legs trembling, but he tries. Fails. The puck skitters wide.
His jaw snaps tight, curse caught between his teeth.
“You’re tired,” I tell him, calm as stone. “Should’ve gone home an hour ago.”
“I can do it,” he snaps.
I step closer, shoes squeaking against the ice. He stares at me like I’ve walked off the poster above his bed.
“Your stance is wrong.”
Before he can argue, I close the last distance. My hands drop heavy on his shoulders, firm, grounding. He goes rigid instantly, breath catching.
“Loosen here.” I adjust the line of his shoulders. My palm drags down his arm, shifting his grip. I press against the bend of his knee, nudging it wider. “There. Now drag slow. Don’t force it. Control the puck—don’t fight it.”
He swallows hard, vibrating under my hands, but he listens. And that makes me smirk.
He steadies. His shoulders loosen, his knees bend where I want them, his grip shifts to fit my hand.
“Now,” I murmur, almost a growl. “Slow. Control. Don’t chase it—make it follow you.”
Elias drags the puck.
This time it clicks. Smooth, tight. The move slides clean, the puck rolling with him like it was waiting.
He gasps, a small sound, like he can’t believe it worked.
I let the silence stretch until he risks a look up—eyes wide, chest heaving, hair plastered to his forehead. Waiting.
“Good boy.”
The words drop like a blade.
And he breaks.
Not with tears or noise, but with a stumble so violent he nearly eats the ice. Knees buckle, edges scrape, stick clatters as he flails. He barely saves it.
I smirk wider. Watching him crumble under two words and my gaze—it’s better than the goal he scored two days ago.
He’s flushed, eyes darting anywhere but me. But he doesn’t leave. Doesn’t try. He just stands there, vibrating, waiting for more.
“Again,” I say.
He jerks like a wire pulled taut, grabs his stick, sets up. The puck moves smoother, but it slips at the end. I don’t touch him this time.
“Again.”
