I haven’t seen that hand signal in ten years.
Back in college she used to do it every single game. When I was rattled, or pissed, or in my head. It meantI’m here. I’ve got you. You’re not alone.
I didn’t realize how much I’d forgotten it, how much I’d buried it, until she does it now, like no time has passed at all.
My lungs tighten and the ice tilts for half a second.
She’s smiling at me. It’s the kind of smile you give someone when you know them, really know them. When you remember everything, even the parts you thought were long gone.
And fuck me, I feel nineteen again. Or twenty. Or whatever age I was when loving her was easy and breathing without her wasn’t.
Connor bangs the glass next to her, shouting something in my direction, but all I hear is the thud of my heartbeat and then, “Yo, Harrison!” Griffin shouts as the puck whips toward me.
I snap back in, catching it clean off my stick and pushing up the boards. My body moves automatically, years of muscle memory doing the work while my brain vibrates with something raw and alive.
I risk one more glance.
She’s still watching.
Still smiling.
Still tapping her heart twice before pressing her fingers to the glass.
This time, I nod. Just barely.
But I know she sees it.
I know she feels it.
And suddenly, I’m flying.
Every stride is sharper. Every check harder. Every pass cleaner. I’m playing like I’ve got fire in my veins and oxygen has a name.
Harper Richardson.
And when I make a dive to break up a Scavengers’ rush—stick extended, body sliding across the ice—it’s her voice I hear cheering before the whole arena erupts.
Tap-tap, touch.
Yeah. She’s here.
And I’ve got her too.
The third period ends tied. The Scavengers miss a last-second shot by an inch. The place is shaking as we collapse onto the bench breathing like we’ve run a marathon.
“OT, boys,” our coach declares. “Let’s finish it!”
My whole-body thrums. Connor is probably losing his mind behind the glass. I can almost hear him now.
We hit the ice again and one minute in August turns over the puck.
“Fuck!” My stomach drops. Scavengers take it the other way and fast. Too fast.
Thank God Ledger steals it with a poke check that should be illegal for being that beautiful. He fires it up the boards. Oliver catches it, taps it to me, and well, hell…
Suddenly it’s just open ice.
I sprint down the ice until I’ve got the perfect placement, knowing everything I’m about to do seems serendipitous so I fucking go for it. Just as I taught Connor to do in his lessons, I rotate my body, performing my trick turn just before I shoot the puck toward the net.
