“God, it’s like watching a rom-com with blades,” Weston groaned. He leaned back, arms crossed, shit-eating grin firmly in place. “Do you two slow dance in the kitchen too? Want me to knit you matching sweaters?”
“Eat glass,” I muttered, but my tone lacked heat.
Kellen, of course, couldn’t resist chiming in. “Tell her to ditch you in a heartbeat if she wants a guy with worse dental work,” he said, flashing a grin wide enough to show off the gap front and center.
I grunted and pulled the tape tight around the blade. “She’s got standards.”
From the corner, Ryker watched the chaos with that unreadable calm of his. He didn’t say much, but the glint in his eye said it all—he knew. And he was just waiting for the rest of us to catch up.
“Don’t pretend you’re above this,” I called over without looking.
Ryker shrugged. “I’m here to win games, not write poetry.”
“Uh-huh.” I finished the last wrap of tape and tossed the roll into the bin. The noise, the teasing—it was the same routine we’d run a hundred times. Usually, it irritated the hell out of me. Today? It grounded me.
Weston’s voice softened, just slightly. “So? She the real deal?”
I paused, hand flexing on the stick handle. No jokes now. No walls either.
“She’s just…” I started, then stopped. The words felt clumsy for something that wasn’t. My mind conjured up all the flashes of Mina—her laugh bubbling out like it didn’t care who was listening, her stubborn glare when she thought I was being too careful, too protective. She was a storm and a calm sea in one breath, and somehow I kept wanting to step into both.
“She’s just what?” Asher prodded, genuinely curious now, his earlier teasing stripped away.
“She makes things easier,” I muttered, running a hand through my hair like that would keep the rest from falling out. And yeah, the moment it left my mouth, I knew how it sounded—too soft, too honest.
Kellen leaned forward, brows raised. “Easier how? Like, less screamy than your exes, or…?”
“It’s not about quiet,” I said. “It’s just… she gets it. Me. This. The mess. She doesn’t ask for more than I can give. Doesn’t pretend I’m something I’m not.” I stared down at the blade of my stick, watching the light catch on the fresh tape. “It’s not complicated. Or maybe it is. But she doesn’t make it feel like a burden.”
From his corner, Ryker shifted, arms crossed, gaze thoughtful. “And that doesn’t freak you out?”
“No.” I paused, letting the silence stretch a second too long. Then I corrected, dry and honest, “Yes. Obviously.” My voice was rougher than I meant it to be.
They laughed again, not cruel—more like the kind of laughter that said, yeah, we’ve all been there. Or wished we had.
Before I could try to clean it up with sarcasm or shut it down completely, the locker room door cracked open and Coach stepped in, eyes sharp and all business. “Let’s go, gentlemen. Focus up.”
I grabbed my helmet and stood, the sound of skates clacking against tile filling the space as we made our way out. But as I stepped through that tunnel and onto the ice, I knew the truth: this wasn’t just about the game. It hadn’t been for a while.
The puck dropped, and I found myself locked in a stare-down with the opposing center. The arena roared, hostility pulsing like a living thing. I thrived on it—the pressure, the heat of a thousand eyes on me.
I leaned into the faceoff, my gloved hand brushing against the ice as I focused solely on that black disk between us. When the referee’s whistle pierced the air, I pushed hard, snapping my stick to win possession. My teammates surged behind me, and just like that, we were off—hockey was my language, and I spoke it fluently.
Skating fast, I kept my head up as we broke into their zone. Every stride brought adrenaline surging through my veins; this was where I felt alive. The other team threw everything they had at me—stick checks and bodies—but I kept moving, weaving through their defense like a needle through fabric.
I faked right, then cut left into the corner. With an aggressive pivot, I threw a heavy check against their defenseman—a clean hit that sent him crashing into the boards with a satisfying thud. The crowd let out a collective gasp followed by cheers from our fans drowning out their jeers.
But not everything went according to plan. Moments later, as I received a pass at the blue line and took aim for a wrist shot, it soared high over the net.
“Damn it,” I cursed under my breath as the puck clattered off the glass behind their goalie.
The first period flew by in bursts of intensity—my line generated chances but couldn’t find pay dirt yet. Shots rang off pads; pucks slid just wide of the posts. Each near miss sharpened my focus; I wouldn’t let this chance slip away.
As we skated back to our bench for a quick breather, Coach’s voice sliced through the chaos. “Stay sharp! Keep pressuring them!”
The second period began with us still searching for that elusive goal when disaster struck. A greasy rebound off our goalie’s pads slipped right to an opposing forward who buried it in our net before we could react.
“Great,” I muttered as we skated back to center ice after they celebrated like they’d just won the lottery.
