All heads turn my way, and I know I'm in for it. Hockey players are like sharks—show any hint of vulnerability, any deviation from routine—that’s blood in the water, and they'll attack with gusto.
"Looks like Captain Coffee had a rough morning," Schmitty adds, tugging his practice jersey over his head. "What happened? Barista reject your advances?"
I peel off my wet sweater, tossing it into my bag. "Actually, she didn't reject me at all."
"That’s a new kink," Kovy says, grinning. "She has a thing about dousing her men in coffee?" The boys snicker.
"Very funny, Kovy" I pull my practice gear down from my stall, trying to act casual. "We literally ran into each other. Coffee went everywhere. We just exchanged numbers."
This gets their attention. These guys have seen me collect phone numbers from beautiful women over the years. It's nothing new. But something about my face must give me away because the teasing intensifies.
"Wait, wait, wait." Liam, our rookie goalie, leans forward. "Are you saying some random chick spilled coffee all over you, and instead of being pissed, you got her digits?"
I shrug, lacing up my skates. "Total accident. Coffee went everywhere—mostly on her white blouse." I laugh and shake my head because I’m leaving out how transparent that blouse became, how deep her eyes looked when she apologized. Those details are mine. "I gave her my jacket since her shirt was soaked."
"The new gray one?" Benny whistles low. "Damn, she must've been smoking hot."
"She's hot, and she’s a kindergarten teacher," I say, surprised by the defensive edge in my voice. "For that reading program we're doing. Pure coincidence."
"A kindergarten teacher?" Kovy raises his eyebrows suggestively. "Like the hot kind from the movies or the scary kind with the rulers?"
I pull my practice jersey over my head to hide my smile. "More the hot kind. I don’t know what she does with rulers.” I say with a mischievous grin.
The guys exchange knowing looks, and I realize I've said too much. I backtrack, falling into our usual locker room banter. "Anyway, it was just funny timing. Got her number, might see her again before the reading thing. No big deal."
But it feels like a big deal. When Reese crashed into me, something weird happened. Not just attraction—I've felt plenty of that before—but something...easier. Comfortable. She didn't simper or try to impress me. She was just real, flustered and funny, and completely herself.
"Earth to McCoy!" Coach Martinez's voice cuts through my thoughts. "If you're done daydreaming about your coffee date, we've got actual hockey to play."
I grab my stick and helmet. "Roger that, Coach."
"And McCoy?" He gives me a stern look that doesn't quite hide his amusement. "Next time bring enough coffee for everyone if you're going to wear it as cologne."
The team roars with laughter as we file out toward the ice. I let them have their fun, knowing they'll find a new target for their jokes soon enough. But as my skates hit the ice, I can't shake the lightness in my chest. There's something about this morning that's left me feeling more present, more alive than I have in weeks.
Practice starts with our usual drills—passing sequences, breakout plays, defensive zone coverage. I push myself harder than usual, my movements crisp and focused. Every time I line up for a drill, I imagine Reese watching from the stands. I picture her wrapped in my too-big jacket, intently following me across the ice.
She's not here, of course. But the mere thought of her pushes me to skate faster, shoot harder, make cleaner passes. I thread a perfect saucer pass through traffic to Kovy for a one-timer that rings off the post and in. He raises his stick in celebration, and I feel a rush of satisfaction.
"Where the hell did that come from?" he asks when we circle back to the blue line.
I just tap his shin pads with my stick and grin. "Just feeling it today."
And I am. Every muscle in my body feels tuned exactly right. I'm seeing plays develop a half-second earlier than usual. My hands are soft with the puck, my shots finding the smallest openings. It's one of those rare practices where everything clicks, where the game feels as natural as breathing.
When Coach blows the whistle to end practice, Sully beckons me over with a slight tilt of his head. I skate to him, breathing hard, sweat dripping down my back.
"Where's that game been hiding?" he asks, voice gruff but eyes appraising.
"What?" I take a swig from my water bottle, playing dumb.
"Don't bullshit me, kid." He leans against the boards. "You were flying out there. Skating like you've got something to prove. Or someone to impress."
I shrug, but I can feel the corner of my mouth twitching up. "Just a good day, I guess."
"Uh-huh." Sully doesn't look convinced. "Nothing to do with why you showed up smelling like a coffee shop?"
"Maybe." I can't help the smile now. "Met someone. Kindergarten teacher. She's part of that reading program."
