But instead of feeling overwhelmed, I feel alive. Every nerve fires, every instinct is sharp. This is what hockey’s supposed to feel like. This is what I’ve been missing.
When he cuts to his backhand and I slide across to make the save, we come to a stop. Close enough that I can see the gray flecks in his blue eyes, the small scar on his temple. Close enough that when he reaches for the post to steady himself, his gloved hand brushes against my shoulder.
The contact lasts half a second max, but a surge of electricity shoots straight down my groin. My breath catches.
“Good save,” he says, his voice rough.
“Good shot.”
We stare at each other now. His chest rises and falls. His expression shifts from guarded to want. Things I haven’t seen since that night in Vegas. The same desperate hunger that made us both forget everything else in the world existed.
My skin tingles under his heated gaze, my fingers itching to fist his messy hair, to taste him again. With a pounding heart, I lean closer. This is dangerous territory. One of us needs to break eye contact before we do something we’ll both regret.
But neither of us moves.
“Tate... ” he says, and my name sounds different now.
I push away from the post, putting space between us before I do something stupid. “Don’t.”
“Why?”
“Because we both know where this goes. And I can’t handle that right now.”
He narrows his eyes, his lips pulled into a tight line. Seconds pass.
“What if I told you that working with you like this - really working with you - is the best part of my day?”
The honesty in his voice nearly cracks me open. “I’d say you’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
“Then I’d say it doesn’t matter.” I adjust my mask, using the action to avoid his eyes. “Because in a few weeks or months, you’ll move on to your next job. And I’ll still be here, trying to fix whatever’s left of my career.”
“What if I told you I don’t want to move on?”
The words are like a confession neither of us is ready for.
“I’d say we should get back to work,” I finally say.
He nods, but I can see disappointment flash across his face before he covers it. “One more drill.”
This time when he skates toward me, there’s something different about his approach. It’s more aggressive.
The shot comes hard and high to my glove side. I reach for it, stretching to make the save, but my balance is off and I’m falling backwards even as the puck hits leather.
But before I crash into the net, strong hands grab my shoulders, steadying me.
“I got you,” Zane says.
We’re pressed together now, his arms around me. Body heat radiates through our gear. I can smell his soap, his cologne. The same scent that haunted me for months after Vegas. The same one that triggered me the second he flew back into my airspace.
“Thanks,” I manage.
“Anytime.”
But he doesn’t let go. And I don’t pull away.
Shit, this is bad.
