She doesn’t look my way, and that somehow makes it worse. She is talking to Janine, pointing toward the far boards where the cameras are setting up. Her hair is loose today, one strand sticking to her lip until she tucks it behind her ear. It is such a small motion, and I feel it like an impact.
Cole elbows me lightly. “Eyes front, Rookie.”
“I am.”
“Not where it counts.”
He skates off before I can respond, which is good, because I have no defense. Every nerve in me is tuned to the cadence of her voice and the way she shifts her weight like she is trying not to take up space. I drag in a breath, center my stick on the ice, and try to force my brain quiet. All it does is get louder.
Cooper calls us into a half-moon drill—three forwards curling around the circle, taking quick passes before snapping shots from the slot. The rhythm builds, pucks hissing across the ice, sticks cracking like metronomes. My mind fractures between the play and the woman at the boards. I tell myself to focus, but every time I glance up, she’s there, with her head bent over her notes, pretending she doesn’t feel me watching.
By the third rotation, my passes come in too hot. One of the rookies yelps when the puck glances off his blade.
“Dial it back, Hendrix,” Cooper warns.
I nod and loosen my grip, trying to steady the pulse pounding in my wrists. The rink hums around me, steady and indifferent. A puck skims past, black against pale blue ice. That color, cold and endless, always makes me think of her.
Make it blue.
The words have been lodged behind my ribs since last night. I meant them as a joke, a throwaway line she could roll her eyes at. Instead, they landed like a confession. I didn’t take them back because, with her, restraint is the only kind of wanting I am allowed.
“Reset!” Cooper’s whistle slices the thought apart.
We fall into the next drill—battle work, two-on-two. Another rookie and I pair off, muscle memory doing what my mind can’t. Cole checks me into the boards with brotherly enthusiasm. The glass rattles, laughter spilling from the bench.
“You’re distracted,” he mutters low enough that only I can hear.
“You hit like a truck.”
“Don’t dodge the question.”
“That was the answer.”
He smirks and shoves back into the play. I focus on the puck, cutting through the slot, chasing the cleanest version of myself I know. For a second, I forget she ishere. Then a camera light blinks in the corner of my vision, and the world pulls tight again.
She’s moved closer to the glass now, talking to a cameraman. Her reflection glances across the plexiglass right beside mine. For one second, it looks like we are side by side. The puck banks off the boards and slides toward me. I catch it cleanly, shoulders tightening as I line up my shot. The rink narrows to a single point, and I drive through the motion, blade connecting with a sharp crack that echoes across the ice. The puck screams past the goalie, hits the crossbar, and ricochets into the netting.
The sound rings through the rink, sharp enough to turn heads. For a beat, it proves my body still knows what to do even when my head is a mess. Sticks bang against the boards in rowdy approval.
“Still got it, Hendrix,” Beau calls.
“About time,” Cole adds, though he’s grinning.
I tap my stick to the ice and let myself look toward the boards. She’s not looking. Everyone else saw it, but she’s already turning away, head bent back over her notes. She gives the moment back to the noise like it never belonged to me at all. The rush drains fast, leaving only the hollow echo of what it could have been, had she seen it. Funny how a perfect shot can still feel like missing.
The rest of practice blurs. Conditioning drills. Breakout patterns. Neutral-zone scrimmages. Every stride scrapes against the hollow spot she left by notlooking. My body keeps moving on instinct, chasing something that refuses to be caught. By the time Cooper calls it, my lungs are raw, and my legs shake, but I keep skating. One more lap. One more shot. One more reason not to think. The cold air cuts through my gear, sharp and unforgiving. Pain is simple. This is not.
When I finally coast to the bench, the ice is a mess of lines and gouges, like someone carved every mistake into it and left them there. Most of the guys are already off, showers running somewhere down the tunnel.
Cole slaps my shoulder on his way out. “Don’t drown in your thoughts, kid.”
“I’m treading water.”
“Try floating. It’s less dramatic.”
He disappears, his laughter echoing behind him. My breath fogs faintly in front of me, curls, and vanishes before it ever reaches the far boards. She is still here. Alycia stands near the penalty box, talking to one of the comms techs. Her posture is perfect, back straight, chin up, but her fingers worry the edge of her tablet. Even from here, I can see the tiny tremor that gives her away.
I tell myself to go shower. To leave this alone and not make it harder than it already is. But I don’t listen. I push off the bench and glide toward her, blades whispering across what is left of the ice. My shadow stretches along the boards, long and thin under the bright lights. She hears me coming but doesn’t look up right away. When she finally does, the movement is small, careful. Her eyes meet mine for lessthan a second, and the air changes. Static prickles under my skin with the same charged air that has been humming between us since the night outside her apartment.
