I can enjoy this without wanting it.
I can let him be kind. I can let him be attractive. I can even let him matter in the limited, carefully managed way that works for me.
There are no labels. No promises. No risks I didn’t calculate.
And whatever this thing with Colby Hayes is...
It fits neatly into the space I’ve allowed for it.
For now.
Chapter twelve
Colby
“You’re late, Hayes.”
“I’m early,” I say, hopping the boards. “You just missed me.”
Dex skates past me backward like he’s auditioning for a figure-skating gala, sticks his face inches from mine, and grins. “Captain’s got jokes. That’s how you know he stood way too close to a woman on stage and didn’t hate it.”
A chorus ofoooohssings across the ice.
I don’t even slow my stride. “Good morning to you too, Miller.”
“Don’t ‘good morning’ me,” Dex says. “You don’t get to good morning me after you let twenty thousand people watch you stand there all calm and competent while a hot woman chose you on stage like it was the season finale of a dating show. And then you had a date with her.”
“Of course she chose me. I was the best option.”
“OMG,” Mason groans, pushing off into a glide that’s way too graceful for a defenseman. “He’s doing the semantic defense. This is serious.”
Gregory appears on my blind side like a horror movie villain with good edges. “Was there tongue?”
“That’s classified,” I say. “And you don’t have clearance.”
They all freeze.
Dex’s grin goes sharp. “So,” he says slowly, “that’s a yes.”
“That’s not what I said.”
Mason nods like he’s piecing together a crime scene. “Which means something happened.”
Gregory hums thoughtfully. “Or something almost happened.”
I look at all of them. “You sound like a group of girls in a high school bathroom, and I’m not answering any of you.”
Coach blows his whistle hard enough to make all of us flinch. “If you idiots put half this energy into the forecheck, we’d be undefeated.”
Dex points his stick at the bench like he’s presenting evidence. “Coach, you heard him. There was a kiss.”
Coach’s stare could curdle milk. “Miller, if you keep narrating imaginary romances, I’m making you skate laps until your grandchildren retire.”
We scatter like guilty children.
Practice starts, and for the first ten minutes, it’s pure routine. Warmup laps. Tight turns. Stops and starts. Coach barking “faster” like that’s a full sentence. We run edge-work and quick-feet drills that make my thighs burn in the way that reminds me I’m still alive.
Dex, of course, can’t keep his mouth shut even while he’s skating suicides.
