I run drills alone on the ice, cutting sharp lines into fresh surface.My body moves; my thoughts don’t.
By the time the rest of the guys start rolling in, sweat is dripping down my spine and my jaw is locked so tight it aches.I force myself into captain mode—neutral, steady, collected.
At least on the outside.
Finn is the first to arrive.
Which is unusual.
He doesn’t look hungover, but something about him is off.His hair’s still damp like he showered quickly.He’s wearing the wrong hoodie—the gray one with the stretched-out neck he only wears on days he doesn’t want attention.And his eyes...
His eyes flick to the door every few seconds.Like he’s waiting for someone.
I don’t want to jump to conclusions.
But my stomach tightens anyway.
He grabs a roll of tape from the shelf, fiddles with it, drops it, curses softly under his breath, picks it up again.Finn doesn’t fumble.Not with tape.Not with anything.
I lean my stick against the bench and cross my arms.
“What’s up?”I ask.
He startles.“What?Nothing.Why?”
I level a look at him.“You’re jumpy.”
“No, I—damn it.”He drops the tape again.
“Finn.”
He freezes.
He won’t look at me.
Something curls low in my gut.Something instinctive.Something territorial I don’t like examining too closely.
“You go out last night?”I ask.
“Yeah.”He swallows.“Just for a drink.”
Alone?
With someone?
With her?
Before I can decide on my next question, the doors at the far end of the rink open.
And she walks in.
Wren.
Hair still slightly damp.Hoodie zipped up to her chin.Eyes shadowed like she barely slept.She carries her bag over one shoulder, clipboard under her arm, trying so hard to look normal it hurts to watch.
But the worst part?
Finn sees her first.
