“Who cares? You’re here with Armstrong. They’d probably buy you a new one.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I just stared out at the rink. The lights, the crowd, all that energy. After a while, Cole appeared on the ice, helmet under his arm, jaw set like he was heading into a war and not a game.
Doryu followed my gaze. “He’s intense, huh?”
I nodded. “He doesn’t really know how to turn it off.”
“Yeah, but that’s why he’s good.” Doryu’s voice was almost soft. “People like that—they bruise easy, but they never quit.”
I glanced at him. He was younger than the rest, but there was something sharp about him. Like he’d seen too much.
“You work for Ignatius?” I asked before I could think better of it.
He grinned. “Partners.” I stared in shock and a little envy. I knew he didn’t mean business partners. His eyes flicked toward Ignatius, who was still deep in conversation with another man. “He’s not as scary as he looks. Just doesn’t trust many people.”
I got that. I didn’t trust anyone, either. Not really.
We watched the teams warm up. The VIP box was almost soundproof, so the roar of the crowd was barely heard. Doryu pointed as the team began warm-ups. “That’s Ignatius’s nephew, the rookie, Keegan Steel. He was a big deal in college, but they have to earn their place here.”
Doryu was easy company. “First time I was here? I was so nervous I nearly puked on Ignatius’s shoes.”
That made me laugh, which felt weird. But good-weird. Ignatius didn’t look over. He was still talking quietly with the suits, voice too low to make out, but I could tell he kept his attention on the ice. Or maybe on Keegan. It was hard to tell.
The game started. I tried not to look for Cole every second, but it was impossible. He was magnetic. The way he moved, the way the play seemed to orbit around him even when he didn’t have the puck—it was like watching a storm that didn’t know it was beautiful.
Doryu leaned in. “He’s really something, huh?”
I nodded. My throat was too tight to answer.
The first period was brutal. Chicago was bigger, meaner. They checked Cole into the boards every chance they got, but he just bounced back up. I could see the sweat running down his neck, the flex of his jaw when he lined up for face-offs. He looked like he was fueled by pure spite.
“You know him well?” Doryu nudged, like he could tell I was watching too close.
I shrugged. “Not really. Just…work stuff.” I didn’t want to say more. Didn’t want to risk it.
He didn’t push.
My gaze drifted back to the ice just in time to watch Cole hop the boards mid-play. Smooth, effortless, like gravity was optional for him.
“How do they know when to do that?” I asked. “He didn’t even look! He was just—” I fluttered a hand. “Gone.”
“Ah.” Doryu leaned closer, elbows on his knees, eyes tracking Cole with unnerving precision. “Line changes.”
“I’ve heard the term,” I admitted. “Still doesn’t help.”
“You see eachgroup?” Doryu pointed with two fingers. “Forwards skate in lines. Defense in pairs. Every line has its opposite on the bench. When one comes off, the next jumps on.”
“But how do they…know?” I pressed. “He didn’t speak to anyone. He didn’t even nod.”
“Instinct,” Doryu said simply. “And awareness. Hockey rewards those who can read the ice.” His mouth twitched. “And Cole reads it very well.”
That was an understatement. Cole skated like he was listening to music only he could hear.
“But that was dangerous,” I said, pointing as another player leaped on just as another staggered toward the bench. “They almost collided.”
“Almost is fine,” Doryu said. “Colliding is normal. Illegal is when the replacement jumps before the other is close enough to the gate.” He tapped the glass gently. “Five feet is the rule. Less, if you’re clever.”
My eyebrows shot up. “Less?”
