“Still is.”
I turn to find Gina standing behind the boards, bundled in a thick coat, arms folded. Her expression is careful, like she’s already braced herself for disappointment.
“Hello, again,” I say.
“Hey.” Her voice is neutral, but her eyes flick to mine and then away again.
Scottie skates over, nearly bouncing. “Can we start?”
“Absolutely,” I say, stepping onto the ice.
We spend the next half hour working on fundamentals. Edge control. Awareness. Selling a move before committing to it. Scottie absorbs everything instantly, adjusting her stance the moment I correct her.
She’s hungry for it. Not desperate. Hungry.
I glance toward the boards more than once, catching Gina watching us when she thinks I’m focused elsewhere. She looks proud. Protective. Tired in a way that doesn’t come from one bad night’s sleep.
When Scottie finally skates off to grab her gear, breathing hard and grinning, Gina steps closer.
“She’s talented,” I say. “But more than that, she’s smart. She reads the ice.”
“She’s always been like that,” Gina says quietly. “Observant.”
There’s something unspoken in the way she says it. Like she’s talking about more than hockey.
I nod. “You’ve done a good job with her.”
Her lips part, just slightly. Surprise flickers across her face before she schools it away. “It’s mostly just been the two of us.”
“I figured,” I say. “Her dad?”
She hesitates, then shrugs. “Around sometimes. Not enough to matter.”
I don’t push. I’ve learned when silence is the kinder choice.
Before either of us can say more, she surprises me by stepping through the gate and onto the ice. She moves carefully at first, then pushes off, gliding smoothly.
My attention locks onto her.
She’s still good. Better than I remember. Graceful without being precious. Confident without showboating. She circles once, twice, then stops in front of me.
“You’re staring,” she says.
“You’re dismissing,” I reply. “Still.”
She snorts. “Compared to you, I was a dime a dozen.”
“That’s not the example you want to set,” I say gently.
Her brows draw together. “Excuse me?”
“You’re allowed to be good at something,” I say. “You don’t have to shrink it just because I went pro.”
For a second, I think she’s going to snap back. Instead, something in her expression softens. Exposed. Vulnerable.
“That’s… annoying,” she says finally. “But noted.”
We stand too close. Close enough that I can smell her shampoo. Close enough that my brain flashes back to summers we spent sneaking kisses behind the rink, dreaming about futures we couldn’t imagine yet.
