I grunt, keeping my eyes on my gear. “Mind your own business, O’Reilly.”
Finn’s grin only widens. “Whole bus could smell it. You finally caught your girl.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He leans in, stage-whispering. “C’mon, one look at her,and it’s plain as day. Girl’s got that good-time shine, and you’re sittin’ here like you wrestled a gator and lived to brag about it.”
“Keep it down,” I growl. “Not everybody needs the damn memo, moron.” I tug my strap secure, lowering my tone. “Last night, she was mine. Now…she’s pulling back. I can feel it. And you ribbing her isn’t helping.”
Finn’s expression softens. He shrugs, tugging his jersey over his pads. “Maybe she just needs a minute to catch her breath.” He takes a long, too-casual sip from his water bottle. “Ran into her this mornin’, y’know.”
My head snaps toward him. “The hell you mean?”
He draws it out, savoring the moment. “Hallway. On my way to breakfast. Looked like she was sneakin’ outta someplace she sure as hell wasn’t s’posed to be. Wonder where that coulda been.”
Possessiveness spikes in my chest, sharp and immediate. I tug my mask down, letting the cage hide my face. Inside, though, I’m seething—not at Finn, but at the distance Eden’s forcing between us. Ten years of silence, and I finally had her letting me back in, one inch at a time. Now she’s already stacking bricks back up.
I get it. She’s cautious, doesn’t want whispers trailing her down the hall. But she’s too damn wrapped up in what people might think. Compared to what’s between us, all that noise doesn’t mean a thing.
She can try to ice me out again. It won’t stick this time.
The Bell Centre is chaos wrapped in cold air and red sweaters. Montreal crowds don’t sit on their hands; they ride every hit, every save, every whistle.
Normally, I thrive on it. Tonight, electricity crackles under my skin in ways that have nothing to do with hockey.
During the first TV timeout, I spot her with Coach,heads bent together, eyes flicking my way, trading quiet words. About whether I’m moving clean, about whether I’m fit. She’s watching me, all right—just not the way I want her to.
Midway through the second, I stretch wide on a rebound and feel that tug in my hip. Not sharp, but enough to light a warning flare. I smother the puck and signal to the bench.
Commercial timeout. Mattias Lindberg drifts into the crease, muttering in German as he taps both posts three times, then skates a little figure eight to “clear bad energy,” as he puts it. Kid’s good, but quirky as hell; the kind of goalie you don’t try to figure out.
Eden’s already waiting. Her professional mask is firmly in place, but her eyes rake me top to bottom before she even speaks. Coach hovers beside her, arms crossed.
She motions me against the wall, brisk. “Rotation.”
I move through it, letting her test the joint. Her hands are steady, clinical, nothing lingering, and yet I feel every second of it.
I tilt my head down, dropping my tone so only she can hear. “You put those hands on me, and I start expecting your mouth next.”
Her fingers falter, the smallest hitch in pressure. Despite the traitorous flush rising under her skin, there’s a flicker of warning beneath the professionalism as her eyes snap to mine. “Not here,” she hisses under her breath. Then, in a steadier tone, “Mobility’s fine. Finish the game, just ease up on your pushes.”
Coach clears his throat, scribbling on his pad, oblivious.
I flash her a smile, easy and boyish, the kind I know used to undo her when we were kids. “Can’t help it.”
“Help it,” she shoots back, fierce, fingers tightening once on my hip before she steps away.
Her tone is cool again when she addresses Coach. “He’s fine.”
I skate out again, the roar of the crowd swallowing me as I drop back into the crease. There’s no room for distraction now. The puck’s snapping around the zone, red sweaters swarming, and I lock in, glove flashing, pads sealing every gap. My hip complains with every push, but I grit through it, refusing to give an inch.
By the time the horn blasts to end the second, sweat runs down my spine and the joint throbs. I skate off with the rest of the boys, Montreal’s crowd pounding on the glass, riding us all the way down the tunnel.
Eden’s waiting in the treatment room, gloves already snapped on. She doesn’t even look at me when I drop onto the table. Just, “Hip?” in that brisk tone that’s supposed to be neutral but grates worse than sandpaper.
“Little stiff,” I admit.
She tests the joint, rotating, pushing. Her hands are clinical, but I know better. The way she avoids my eyes, the way her breath catches when my thigh shifts under her palm, it’s all there if you know where to look.
