A nervous laugh fluttered out of her. “Not in the way you mean, no. I don’t skate.”
“Well, you’re wearing them.” I clasped her hand in mine. “Might as well put ‘em to use.”
I gave a light tug, steady pressure until she gave in and slid onto the ice with me. Her free hand shot out to the boards for balance.
“I swear to God, Hunter—”
“There are no wallflowers in hockey,” I said, pulling her gently toward center ice.
She wobbled, muttering under her breath, and a few of the kids laughed. Not making fun exactly, just amused to see an adult try to remember how gravity worked. She gave me a look that could have cut glass, and I couldn’t help but laugh.
“Don’t,” she warned.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
But I kept going anyway. We ended up back at the goalie station, where the two little guys were now arguing about who got to wear the glove next.
I pointed at Holly. “Coach Holly’s taking over.”
Her head snapped toward me. “Excuse me?”
“Show them a few tricks to beginner goalkeeping. You’ve watched enough games. Share your wisdom.”
“I’m not—”
“Sure you are.”
She sighed like she wanted the ice to swallow her, but then something changed. She crouched down between the boys, adjusted one kid’s blocker, and pointed to his knees. “If you’re too wide, you’ll fall backward. Try again.”
The kid reset, dropped, and stuck it perfectly. Holly’s face softened.
“Nice,” she said, barely loud enough for him to hear.
That’s how it went—me tossing pucks, her coaching in bursts, both of us laughing when a puck ricocheted off a pad and caught me in the hip.
After a while, I forgot about the crowd, the noise, the schedule. The clinic could’ve gone on another five hours and I wouldn’t have cared. Holly skated smoother the longer she stayed out there, muscle memory kicking in. There was a moment when she slid sideways to catch a loose puck and stopped dead. Totally balanced. And she looked over at me, breath fogging in the chill, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen her smile like that.
“Did you see that?” A giddy laugh rippled out of her.
“You’ve been holding out on me, Griswold.”
It wasn’t about the kids anymore, not really. It was about the space between us. About pulling her into something she didn’t ask for and watching her come alive anyway.
When the whistle finally blew to end the clinic, half the kids mobbed her instead of me.
And I didn’t even mind.
By the time we finished packing up, my legs felt like concrete. The bus idled outside the arena, taillights cutting through the dark Missouri air. Holly was walking backward in front of me, juggling her bag, her tablet, and a coffee that looked criminally fresh.
“Today kicks off the road trip press junket,” she said, half to me, half to her notes. “You, Mason, Grayson, and Coach. I’ll handle scheduling and prep.”
“Prep?” I asked, climbing the bus steps.
“Yeah, prep.” She slid into the seat beside mine, laptop already open. “As in, making sure you don’t tell reporters you ‘just played your best game ever’ for the fifth interview in a row.”
I leaned back and shut my eyes. “No promises.”
“Hunter.”
