He shrugs. “Yeah, but 'for her' sounds hotter.”
Before I can respond, Coach Hale shouts from behind us as we head for the locker room for our pre-game meeting.
“Blackhorn! Play hockey, not Romeo and Juliet!”
Dex gasps dramatically. “Coach reads romance!”
"I read you turkeys like a grocery list" Coach fires back.
The guys howl.
He blows his whistle twice, loud enough to rattle teeth.
"Circle up. Now. Before I start benching egos for sport."
We form a loose semicircle in the locker room. Coach plants his hands on his hips like we’ve already disappointed him and the game hasn’t started.
"Alright, geniuses. You want first in the division? Earn it. This team we’re facing tonight isn’t going to roll over because you’re handsome menaces, and occasionally capable of adult decisions. They’re fast, they’re physical, and they play like someone owes them money."
Dex raises his hand. "Do we owe them money?"
The coach ignores him. "Stay disciplined. No stupid penalties. No hero plays unless your name is on the back of the jersey AND on the scoreboard. Clear?"
We nod.
"And for the love of sanity, stop chirping at each other and focus. The puck doesn’t care about your drama or who kissed who in what hallway. Win the damn game."
We push off, filing toward the rink, the rush already crawling up my spine.
***
We hit the ice.
Instant adrenaline. Instant clarity. Instant speed.
I chase the puck, crash the boards, take a hit and give one back. Clean. Hard. Focused.
Except my focus keeps flickering.
Because every time I skate where she's sitting, I can feel her gaze like heat against the back of my neck.
She thinks she’s subtle. She’s not.
Halfway into the second period, I break through the defense and fire a wrist shot top shelf.
Goal.
The crowd roars.
I skate past her section and keep my gloves to myself. No tap. No signal. Just restraint, even if it kills me.
Somewhere in the noise, Dex yells,
“THAT’S RIGHT! CHANNEL YOUR REPRESSION INTO SPORTS!”
I ignore him. Mostly.
We grind through the rest of the game. They score once on a greasy rebound, and the refs miss two blatant slashes… classic. Coach Hale is losing his mind behind the bench, screaming something about "charging interest on penalties" while Dex chirps the other bench like he's auditioning for stand-up comedy. We tighten up the forecheck, block shots, and play like the division depends on it, because it does.
