I pressed my forehead against the cold glass and let myself feel it: the terrifying, impossible hope that maybe—just this once—a good thing wasn't about to be taken away.
The bus shuddered to a stop, and I was on my feet before the air brakes finished hissing.
"Piatkowski, the bus is still moving—"
"Technically, it's stationary, Coach, and I need to—"
"Sit down."
I sat for approximately eleven seconds. Then the doors opened, and I was third off the bus, colliding with Kowalczyk's equipment bag.
The Thunder Bay cold carried the smell of pine and diesel and something metallic off the lake. I sucked in a breath that burned on the way down.
Then I saw him.
Adrian stood near the edge of the lot, away from the cluster of cars. He wasn't filming. No camera bag on his shoulder orequipment case at his feet. It was Adrian in his dark jacket, hands in his pockets, watching the bus like waiting for me was the only thing on his schedule.
Something cracked open in my chest—not painfully, but like a window unsticking after a long winter.
He watched me see him. His mouth curved slightly. It wasn't a grin—Adrian didn't grin. Smaller than that. Private. A smile that was a secret we were keeping from everyone else.
I didn't run to him. I wanted to—God, I wanted to crash into him like a forecheck against the boards. Unfortunately, there were eighteen teammates behind me, plus Coach, and Juno's girlfriend, who'd come to pick up equipment, and whatever remained of my professional dignity.
I walked. Slowly. Like a normal human person.
Behind me, Jake made a sound like a tea kettle whistling.
Hog's voice drifted over: "Wow, my phone is so interesting right now. Look at this phone."
Coach's silence was the loudest thing in the lot. He would remember everything for a future conversation, which I would definitely not enjoy.
I ignored them all and stopped about two feet from Adrian. Close enough to see the faint shadows under his eyes. I smelled his soap—that scent I didn't want to wash out of my sheets.
"Hey," I said.
"Hey." His voice was low. Quiet enough that only I could hear. "Good trip?"
"Seven points. Plus-eight. Career best." I shoved my hands in my pockets, mirroring his posture. "You might have heard. I texted you approximately nine hundred times about it."
"I think I heard about it somewhere." That small smile again. "You also sent me a picture of a vending machine at 2 a.m. with no context."
"It had a threatening aura. I needed to document it for the historical record."
Adrian laughed—quiet, just a huff of breath that fogged between us.
This is mine, I thought.
The possessiveness was new. I didn't domine. I did chaos and deflection, and I made sure everyone knew I wasn't taking anything too seriously, because if I didn't take things seriously, it hurt less when they got taken away.
Whatever this is—I'm keeping it.
I searched for something to say. "You didn't have to come to the lot. You could have just—I would have found you later."
Something flickered behind his eyes—there and gone before I could name it.
"I wanted to see you. I didn't want to wait."
My pulse pounded in my ears.
