“Keep your spacing! Henriksen, you’re crowding Kyle’s lane again,” Cooper’s voice echoes from the bench.
The kid—rookie winger, barely twenty—flushes under his helmet. “Sorry, Coach.”
“Sorry doesn’t win games,” one of the vets, Crosby, calls from his place on the ice. “Move your feet, kid!”
Laughter ripples across the ice as a few sticks tap the boards. This is typical for any hockey practice; being in the NHL doesn’t make anyone exempt from some harmless chirping that fills the gaps when we’re not trying to think too hard.
Cooper blows the whistle in two short bursts. “Run it again!”
Henriksen and I line up for the faceoff, waiting for everyone to set. He taps his stick against the ice, eager to make up for his last miss. The puck drops, and he wins it, carrying it up ice, but his stick is too far out in front, telegraphing every move. I track him easily,waiting for the mistake. It comes fast. A clumsy shift of weight, a half-second hesitation.
I dart in, angle my blade, and lift the puck. It slides toward the left boards, and he scrambles after it. I drop my shoulder, cutting inside, ice hissing up my shins as I pull it back under control.
“Head on a swivel, kid!” I bark, stealing the puck clean off his blade. “Lesson one: don’t telegraph your move.”
Crosby glides parallel to my left, calling for the pass. “Here, here!”
I open my stance, faking the feed his way just long enough for Carter to bite. He shifts to make space, pulling his defender with him. That’s all the space I need. A stick tap echoes behind me—tap tap—letting me know Cole is with me.
I pivot my wrists, sending the puck backward across the ice. He catches it on the tape perfectly, and in the same breath, sends it back my way. The pass hums over the surface, and I drop low into my stride and drive straight through the middle, cutting right to left. I angle, twist my torso, and let the puck fly. It cuts through the air and snaps against the back of the net with a crisp, electric sound that hits somewhere behind my ribs.
Cheers echo from the guys around me as Henriksen skids to a stop beside me, shaking his head with a grin. “You make it look easy, man.”
“It’s not.” I grin back, panting. “You just gotta think less.”
“Yeah?” Crosby shouts, coasting past. “Tell that to Coach the next time he’s yelling about coverage!”
Laughter rolls across the ice, grounding me just long enough to pretend I’m fine. Then I see her through the glass, and every sound in the rink goes muffled.
Alycia stands just beyond the boards, clipboard tucked against her chest, head tilted slightly as she watches. Her lips press together, and I see the exact moment she realizes I have caught her looking. She straightens and scribbles something on her notepad that does not need to be written. The air between us vibrates through the glass until she feels like the only thing in motion and everything else falls away.
Cole skates up beside me like he has been watching the same thing. He doesn’t say anything at first, just coasts with me as we loop back to center.
“You good?” he asks finally, low enough that only I can hear it.
I keep skating, forcing my shoulders loose and pretending the ache in my chest is just from the workout. “Always.”
The lie tastes sharp, like chewing glass. I can still feel her eyes on me. Maybe it is just my imagination, taunting me with what I cannot have.
“You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The one that says you’re trying real hard not to think about something or someone.”
My grip tightens on my stick until the fiberglasscreaks. My jaw flexes behind my mouth guard. I want to snap back, tell him he is wrong, but he isn’t. He never is when it comes to me.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
His gaze flicks toward the boards, where Alycia stands with the rest of the PR staff. “Yeah,” he says, mouth curving. “I’m not seeing things, kid.”
There it is. A soft punch to the gut. He sees right through me, the way big brothers always do. What am I supposed to tell him? That I can’t stop replaying the look on her face when she told me to forget? That I’d give anything to convince her to give this a chance? The words tangle up behind my teeth and never make it out.
Cole keeps pace beside me like this is nothing. But if anyone on this ice understands wanting something that doesn’t fit the lines you have been given, it’s him.
“Does wanting it ever… stop?”
The question slips out quieter than I mean it to, but it hits hard anyway.
