By the time the jet touches down and we shuttle to the hotel, I’ve memorized her little tells. The way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s focused. The tilt of her head when she’s listening.
At check-in, we keep perfect distance. But when we’re both waiting for key cards, I let myself drift just close enough for our shoulders to nearly touch.
We both reach for the counter at the same time. Almost.
The jolt from thatalmostshoots straight through me.
“Ice machine’s at the end of the hall,” I say, voice normal volume, like I'm making casual conversation. “Left of the elevator.”
She nods once, studying her key card like it holds state secrets.
Room 412. I'm in 408.
Four doors. Might as well be four hundred miles.
We navigate the lobby separately, but I'm hyper-aware of her every movement—the click of her heels on marble, the way she adjusts her laptop bag, how she holds herself with that perfect professional posture even when she thinks no one's watching. In the elevator, I catch a hint of her perfume, something warm and subtle that makes me want to lean closer.
Night passes with the knowledge that she's just down the hall. I lie in the too-soft hotel bed, staring at the wall that separates us, calculating the exact number of steps it would take to reach her door. Twenty-three. I counted twice.
The morning skate is where I test our new normal. I glide through warm-ups, but my focus keeps drifting to the stands. She’s already there when we hit the ice, tablet in hand, perfectly positioned to observe team dynamics.
Halfway through drills, she moves—three seats to the left. Now she’s directly in my line.
Smart woman.
I skate past her section. No wave. No smile. Just three full seconds of eye contact as I coast by.
I see you.
She barely nods. Looks down at her tablet like she’s studying zone entries. But I catch the slight curve of her lips.
It's enough.
During a water break, I spot her watching me with the same intensity I've been watching her, the composure shewears like armor faltering just enough to reveal the heat underneath. When she realizes I've caught her staring, she doesn't look away immediately like she should. Instead, she holds my gaze for a beat too long, her chin lifting slightly in challenge.
The arena suddenly feels tendegrees warmer.
“Sullivan!” Coach’s voice snaps me out of it. “You here to put on a show or play hockey?”
“Hockey, Coach.” But my pulse is still hammering from that look.
The afternoon game goes well—we take St. Louis 4-2—but I'm distracted. Every time I spot Sloane during media timeouts, I want to skate over and... what? Kiss her in front of fifteen thousand people? Real smart, Sullivan.
Get it together.
The mandatory team dinner at some upscale steakhouse downtown should be routine. Good food, team bonding, everyone on their best behavior. It should be easy enough to keep my distance.
I'm at a table with a few of the other veterans—safe zone. But not far enough. Sloane is at the next table over, seated with Vivian.
The restaurant lighting makes her hair glow. I’m trying not to stare when the voice hits me sideways.
“Well, well.TankSullivan.”
I look up. Danny O’Malley. Blues forward. Smug. Uninvited.
He slides into the open seat beside Sloane. My jaw locks.
“O’Malley.”
