I keep my head down as we drop our bags in the locker room, trading my clothes for gear and my sneakers for skates. Logan nudges me with his shoulder. “You good?”
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “Feels weird being back after yesterday.”
He hums in agreement, eyes flicking toward the rink. “Then let’s make it un-weird.”
The second my blades hit the ice, muscle memory takes over. The cold rush underfoot, the clean bite of steel—it’s grounding. I take a slow lap, nodding to a few teammates as I pass. Nobody stares too long. A couple of them clap sticks against the boards when I skate by, easy and wordless, and something in my chest loosens.
Logan joins me halfway through my second lap, skating backward, a teasing grin tugging at his mouth. “Thought maybe you forgot how to skate after yesterday’s disaster of a practice.”
I flick a bit of ice at him with my blade. “Funny. But I’m pretty sure it was you that played like shit yesterday.”
He laughs—low, real—and the sound settles somewhere deep inside me.
Coach blows the whistle from the bench. “Shaw, Brooks—drill lines. Let’s see if you two remember what chemistry looks like.”
Logan winks at me as he grabs a puck. “Don’t embarrass me.”
I smirk back. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
We fall into sync easier than I expect. Pass, pivot, shoot—our rhythm slipping back into place like it never left. Each clean connection feels like something inside me repairing itself, one small movement at a time.
When the drill ends, I glide to a stop beside him, breathing hard. The puck slides to a lazy stop between us, just shy of the net.
Logan exhales, his breath fogging in the cold air. “Okay, not perfect,” he admits, grinning anyway. “But not a disaster either.”
I shake my head, trying not to smile. “You always set the bar that low?”
He smirks. “Only when I like the guy I’m skating with.”
That gets me—just a small laugh, but it feels good leaving my chest. “Guess that means there’s hope for us.”
“Plenty,” he says quietly, bumping my shoulder with his before glancing away.
Coach’s whistle cuts through the rink, calling for a reset. He gives us both a nod—subtle, approving—before turning back to the rest of the team.
I draw in a deep breath, the cold biting at my lungs, the sound of blades carving ice all around us.
It isn’t perfect. But it feels like we’re skating toward the same direction again.
When the next whistle blows, we line up again. Logan flashes me a look over his shoulder—half challenge, half dare.
“Try to keep up this time,” he calls.
I roll my eyes. “You miss one pass yesterday and suddenly you’re Gretzky?”
He grins. “Didn’t hear you complaining when I carried your ass through drills last semester.”
“Carried?” I fire the puck straight at his stick, hard enough that it smacks and skitters forward. “Pretty sure that’s what I’m doing now.”
He catches it, laughter spilling out as he pivots and drives toward the goal. “Ah, there he is. Captain Mouth.”
“Better than Captain Overconfidence.”
“Not according to my stats.”
The exchange draws a few chuckles from the guys nearby. Even Coach hides a smirk behind his clipboard as we run another round—sharper, smoother.
Something clicks. Our passes land cleaner, our timingtighter. The rhythm’s still rough at the edges, but the old connection is there—like muscle memory waking up after a short sleep.
