Her mouth twitches—pain, not hesitation—then firms. “Cruel is me being forced to choose in the first place.”
She reaches for the door, pauses with her hand on the knob. “Jessica reached out. She’s helping me steady the narrative around the clinic.”
I don’t say that I asked Jess to run point. If Eden needs it to be her right now, I’ll let it.
“Don’t push,” she says, soft but final. “Let me breathe.”
The door closes with a click that cracks through my chest.
The house swallows sound again. I stare at her untouched smoothie, condensation sliding down the glass in patient, inevitable lines. I pick it up, tip it into the sink, watch the pale pink whirl vanish.
My phone vibrates once more. A text from Ryan.
Ryan
Square foot of ice. Breathe.
I set the glass down and do the only thing I can: inhale. Exhale. Again.
Tonight I have a game. And for the first time in a week, I finally understand the assignment.
37
ICED (NATE)
The Garden roar has nothing on the noise in my head.
We’re in the third, up by two, and I should be locked in—seeing it early, taking the ice, shutting it down.
Instead, my eyes keep sliding to the bench.
Eden stands behind Coach, iPad pressed to her chest, face smooth and unreadable. As far as I can tell, she hasn’t looked at me once all game, not even when I stretched out for that save in the second. Normally she’d be watching, ready with a signal, planning how to patch me up if needed. Tonight? Nothing.
She treats me as she would any other player. And it’s driving me insane.
Focus, Russo.
The puck drops.
Their winger explodes down the left. He’s fast, slick through traffic. Two-on-one forming. Wesley had pinched, and now he’s hustling, hips open, trying to close the gap.
“Backcheck!” He barks, cutting an angle.
But it’s too late. The opposing winger hits the circleswith speed, his linemate crashing the net. I push out of my crease, read the hands, take the ice I need. Eyes on the shooter. Trust the angle. Cut the shot.
My hip fires clean. No drag, no hesitation. Weeks of working with Eden are paying off, as she promised. Her hands. Her voice echoing in my head, “Hold your line. Trust your edges.”
The winger winds up. Fake shot. I hold. Pass across—there it is.
One-timer coming.
I drop and slide, glove hand exploding high as the rubber screams off the blade.
Crack.
Puck meets leather. The crowd gasps, then erupts.
“Holy shit, Russo!” Finn bellows.
