Riley slides her clipboard into her bag, the strap catching on the chair arm. I’m halfway to stepping in when she frees it herself with a quick twist and a ghost of a smile that isn’t for me. She’s fine. Of course she’s fine. She’s built entire careers out of being fine in rooms that would rather she be invisible.
I let the window reflection do the looking for me: her profile sharp, mouth set. The bruise of the elevator kiss isn’t visible, but I feel it in my own skin like a mark under tape.
Danvers drifts toward the door and pauses just long enough for his gaze to tilt between us again, measuring a distance he can’t quantify. I plant my hands in my pockets so I don’t fold that look into a square and feed it to him.
Julia angles into my line of sight, her eyebrows a question. Behaving? I give her the blandest version of my face. She nods, almost imperceptible, and peels away to intercept Danvers with a business card and a promise of policy PDFs.
“Hey, Lane,” Ducks calls as the room thins. “Keep Maddox under twenty-one if he starts getting cute with cross-ice sauce.”
“I’ll keep everyone under twenty-one,” she says, easy as sliding a blade cap on, and the room laughs again, safer this time. She doesn’t glance at me. I don’t deserve it anyway.
I shoulder past Murphy at the threshold. He slaps my arm, a friendly thud. “Stay outta the box tonight, show pony.”
“Plan A,” I say. Plan B is smashing a man with a clipboard through a wall, so yes, plan A.
In the short hall outside, the soundproofing gives up and the arena’s low thunder creeps in—fans banging the glass during open skate, the organ test run, the deep-bellied hum of refrigeration under our feet. It steadies me. The ice always does.
Riley steps out behind Adams. For a second we’re parallel, shoulder to shoulder and not touching, our reflections doubling in the glass case of retired pucks. I keep my eyes on the trophies and talk to the air. “Load feels good. I’ll run the edge work you mapped.”
Adams answers instead. “Good. Keep strides clean. Lane will send the interval update.”
“Will do,” I say, and it costs more than it should to leave it there—to let the conversation run through a third party like a wire grounded into the floor.
Riley pauses just long enough to adjust the strap on her bag, the smallest tilt of her head in my peripheral like a nod thatnever fully happens. Then she’s moving, efficient, purposeful, disappearing down the corridor that smells like eucalyptus liniment and victory lies.
I exhale, slow, let the hum of the building grow in my chest until it drowns everything else out. If they want documented interactions and open doors, fine. They can watch me do the one thing they actually pay me for. I’ll give them a game they can’t forget.
Warmups burn the excess out of my legs—edge work, pivots, a couple of lazy wrist shots that thud against the boards and wake up my hands. I don’t scan the bench. I don’t need to. I know exactly where she’d stand if I let myself look: third from the tunnel, clipboard tucked to her ribs, eyes on feet and hips and the places where stride turns into strain. I skate away from knowing it.
The game plays out like muscle memory and math. Every shift feeds the next: passes clean, hits hard, the scoreboard moving in our favor. I play the angles, stay boring, until the exact second I don’t have to be. The goal snaps off my stick and lights the building. The sound hits bone. I let it fill me, then let it go.
Third period. One-goal lead. Ice going bad. A winger takes a run at our rookie and the world tilts. I shoulder him off clean—textbook. The crowd roars approval. Still, the adrenaline hums wrong, too sharp. I can feel Riley’s attention like a wire humming between us.
We kill the penalty. We kill the clock. We win. The horn sounds, gloves and helmets fly, and I’m somewhere in the middle of the pile, laughing because the noise is too loud to think.
The tunnel floods with bodies and heat and flashbulbs. My phone buzzes in my pocket: PR directive—USE BACK EXIT. KEEP IT BORING. I pocket it. I’m not ready to disappear yet.
Reporters swarm. Cameras glare. Riley stands in the storm, clipboard raised, all focus and precision, one curl loose by her temple. She’s not looking at me. I find her anyway.
A cameraman backpedals into her blind side, lens red, recording. Instinct cuts through the crowd. My hand finds the small of her back, steadying. She breathes. Jessie’s voice cuts through the din: “Brand row—keep it clean!”
Too late. The lens catches the angle—her focus, my hand, the sponsor logo blazing behind us like a brand.
Jessie steps into the shot, smile sharp as a blade. “Credential?” she asks. The cameraman just grins and keeps filming.
Danvers watches from the edge of the scrum. His expression says paperwork and consequences. I shift, blocking the lens, making myself the story. The red light blinks again, hungry.
Riley lifts her clipboard, a small shield. “Step back, please,” she says. Professional. Unshaken. It kills me and saves us both.
The cameraman adjusts, lining up the perfect frame—star forward, team trainer, sponsor logo. Jessie snaps again. “Now, Jason. Back exit.”
I hold the space for one more breath. Protect. Don’t break. Don’t touch. The red light blinks a final time.
And then instinct wins.
My palm finds warm skin.
Chapter 15
