He huffs, half a laugh, half disbelief. “You’re crazy.”
“Thanks,” I say lightly, but the sound of my voice feels too thin.
He grabs his stick and turns toward the benches, muttering something under his breath. I don’t catch the words, but I catch the tension in his shoulders—the way he’s trying too hard to keep it together.
I stay where I am, watching the distance stretch between us, the echo of his body still burning against mine.
Yeah. We’ve got chemistry all right. And it might just wreck both of us.
The days blurtogether in a rhythm that should feel routine by now—team practices in the morning, classes in the afternoon, and a return to the rink each night. Just the two of us.
And this tension.
Unspoken, electric, and thick enough to cut with a skate blade.
It coils tighter with every drop pass, every clipped word, every accidental brush of skin. Todd pretends it isn’t there, keeps his tone professional, keeps his hands steady—but I see the cracks. I feel them in the way his eyes linger a beat toolong, in the way he always finds some reason to back off the second things get too close.
And still, we keep skating. Shooting. Sparring.
Each night, it builds—this quiet pressure between us—until I’m sure it’s going to combust. One wrong move and the whole thing will blow wide open.
I’m not sure if that’s what I want.
Or if I’m just daring him to be the one who breaks first.
It’s almost nine by the time we make it back to the ice. The rink’s officially closed, lights half-dimmed, the hum of the refrigeration system louder in the quiet. It’s just us—again.
Todd flips the puck up with the toe of his stick, catching it midair and dropping it onto the ice with a practiced tap. He doesn’t say a word, just skates a slow circle while I tug on my gloves and flex my fingers.
We don’t wear pads for these. No jerseys either. Just hoodies and sweatpants, like it’s not the most intense part of my day.
“You wanna run corners?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.
Todd just nods, tossing the puck toward the boards.
We fall into rhythm easily. Too easily. Like our bodies remember something we’re both pretending never happened. The scrape of skates, the snap of passes, the sharp click when the puck meets the boards—it fills the silence. Until it doesn’t.
I cut across the ice, beating him to the corner, and when he catches up, he’s right there—hip to hip, shoulder to chest, pinning me into the boards with a force that has nothing to do with hockey.
The puck spins off toward the blue line, forgotten.
His breath fans hot across my cheek. One hand still on his stick, the other pressed flat to my ribs.
“You gonna let me go, Captain?” I ask. “Or do you like the feel of my body against yours?”
His grip tightens. Just a fraction.
“Maybe you should stop mouthing off,” he mutters.
I lean in slightly, grinning. “Didn’t know you liked it rough.”
His entire body goes tense.
We’re so close I can feel it—the moment he thinks about backing off. The moment he doesn’t.
Instead, he stays exactly where he is, like stepping back would be worse.
I don't move either.
