Dex clutches his chest. “He said ‘objectively’ like he’s writing a scientific paper about his own feelings.”
“I don’t have feelings,” I say.
Gregory smirks. “That’s not what your face says.”
Coach skids to a stop in front of us. Snow sprays.
He points his stick at each of us like we’re in court. “Are we talking about hockey or are we planning a double date?”
“Yes,” Dex says immediately.
Coach’s eyes narrow. “I swear to God, you play like toddlers when the captain gets laid.”
“I did not… ” I start.
Coach points his whistle at me. “Don’t finish that sentence.”
Laughter ripples through the line again.
Coach blows once. “Scrimmage. Blue versus white. And if you play like you’re texting your girlfriends instead of skating, I’ll make you all run stairs until you forget how to speak.”
“Captain doesn’t text,” Dex says loudly as he takes his position. “He sends polite emails.”
I stare at him.
He smiles sweetly. “Best regards.”
“Puck,” Coach barks.
We drop into the scrimmage. It’s fast, messy in the best way. I call switches. I direct traffic. I take a hard pass from Mason and snap it to the net. Our goalie blocks it clean, and the rebound shoots to the corner.
Dex races me for it like his life depends on it.
We get there at the same time. He leans in as we battle along the boards.
I chip the puck past him and take off.
Coach is already yelling. “HAYES. BACKCHECK.”
“I AM,” I shout.
“FASTER.”
We cycle. We battle. We score. We chirp. It’s hockey, chaos contained in rules.
For a few shifts, they let it go.
Then Mason catches me on the bench as I take a drink of water.
“You like her.”
It’s not a question.
I swallow and set the bottle down. “Yeah, kind of.”
That’s it.
The bench goes dead quiet.
