"Pickle." Adrian's voice carried across the rink. "You're up."
I skated over. Stopped a little too hard, spraying ice chips in a way I hoped looked intentional rather than uncoordinated.
Adrian had his camera angled up at me. Those blue-gray eyes—I'd noticed them last night, but in the fluorescent rink lighting, they were sharper. Steadier.
"Whenever you're ready," he said. "Name, position, hometown, something about yourself."
I opened my mouth.
My brain—the part responsible for organizing thoughts before they became words—walked out the door, leaving no forwarding address.
"I want to be the kind of player people remember for the right reasons."
The words were too loud, too fast, and too much.
Silence.
Somewhere behind me, Evan's stare bore into my back.
Adrian blinked.
"What does that mean to you?" he asked in a gentle voice. I heard curiosity, like he actually wanted to know.
"It means—" I grabbed the water bottle from the boards, "Hydration! Staying hydrated is very important for—"
I squeezed the bottle.
In my defense, I didn't know it was already uncapped. Water geysered directly into my own face.
I sputtered and stumbled backward, temporarily blinded. My skate blade caught the edge of the puddle I created, and my feet slid out from under me.
Before I could hit the ice, a hand caught my elbow. Firm grip. Warm through my jersey.
Adrian lunged forward, and his fingers wrapped around my arm like he'd done it a thousand times. I didn't fall.
I hung there, suspended in his grip, water dripping down my face, staring at him from approximately eight inches away.
"You okay?" he asked.
His voice was low. Audible only to me.
I forgot every word I'd ever learned. Forgot my own name. Forgot that other people existed, and I was supposed to be a professional hockey player, not a puddle of disastrous gay longing on skates.
"Uh," I said. "Yep. Good. Great. Very... standing."
Adrian's mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close.
He continued to hold my arm.
"Hydration's important," he said, deadpan.
Behind me, Jake's laugh echoed across the rink.
Practice setup was supposed to be simple. Cones out, pucks distributed. I'd done this a thousand times.
But my autopilot was broken, rewired by the ghost of Adrian's hand on my elbow, and my brain needed somewhere else to go.
A sound from the Zamboni bay saved me. It was faint and metallic, a grinding noise that hit my ear wrong, like a fork scraping a plate.
