Except it doesn’t work.
Because every time I blink, I see her. Petite frame drowning in an oversized cardigan. Straight black hair pulled back in a ponytail. The way her cheeks flushed when she tried not to stare. And those sharp eyes…
She glanced at my naked body from head to toe and looked away, like I was a disappointing science experiment.
It’s the hottest thing that has happened to me in months.
“Dude.” Jake Morrison, our captain, skates up beside me during the water break. “You good?”
“I’m fine, Jax.”
“You missed an open net twice. You're never fine when you miss open nets.” He takes a drink, then gives me a long look. “What's going on?”
“Nothing. Just off today.”
“Right.” He nods slowly. He doesn't push, which is what makes him a good captain. “Get your head back in it, Dec. We've got game film after this.”
He skates off.
I pull my phone from my pocket. It brings back the image of Ivy’s phone sitting on the therapy room bench.
I don’t regret that she doesn’t know I was the one who found it.
Not when she’s texting me back with that sharp mix of intelligence and vulnerability she sure as hell didn’t show in the therapy room. Not when she’s opening up about her research—about her passion for understanding traumatic brain injuries.
My phone buzzes.
I shouldn’t check it. We’re in the middle of practice, and Coach will have my head if he catches me on my phone again.
I check it anyway.
I smile at yet another text from her.
I’m still grinning when Jax skates past, shaking his head.
Practice drags. Every drill feels like it takes twice as long. I skate, pass, shoot, score, but my focus splinters every few minutes. By the time Coach blows the whistle to end practice, sweat slides down my spine and every muscle hums from overcompensation.
“Alright, bring it in! Tomorrow, there’ll be no conditioning drills. I’ve been too merciful on you.” His accent thickens when he's annoyed, which is most of the time. He's in his fifties, built like a refrigerator, and has a coaching philosophy of ‘skate until you vomit, then skate more.’ “Be quick. I have an announcement.”
The team gathers around center ice. Connor Hayes, our rookie forward, bounces on his skates. His bright blue eyes glance at me.
“Think this is about the road trip? Or maybe they’re finally installing those new steam showers? I’ve been asking for weeks.”
“Connor, if you don’t stop talking, I’m trading you myself,” Tyler Chen, one of our defense men, says.
“You can’t trade me, Ty. You’re not the GM.”
“I’ll find a way.”
“No, you won't. You don't have the bones to do it. That scar on your eyebrow can't deceive me.”
“Listen up,” Coach says, and the rink quietens. “Starting next week, we’ll participate in research studies for concussion prevention, biomechanics, all the brain stuff. It's a university partnership. You’ll cooperate, and you won’t complain.”
A collective groan rises from the team.
“Do we have to?” Ty asks.
“Yes.”
