I slowed at center ice and let myself coast. My breathing evened out. The rink stretched wide and silent around me, but the silence had changed. Earlier, it was like privacy. Now it felt like a witness.
I ran the drill one more time. Edges and acceleration.
My blade caught. Not much. A quarter-inch too shallow on the turn, with too much weight leaning forward.
I corrected automatically. Finished the sequence cleanly, but I'd felt it. The slip.
It wasn't the first time I'd slipped.
My first and, so far, only kiss happened that way. A teammate in juniors. Late at night in a hotel room after a road win. Both of us were drunk on adrenaline and cheap beer.
The room smelled like pizza and sweat-soaked pads. The bed had been too soft, some budget chain mattress that dipped in the middle. He tasted like beer and spearmint gum, and when he grabbed my shirt, his hands shook.
Mine did too.
For ten seconds, my body moved without asking permission. Heat and want. A terrifying loss of control.
Then fear—sharp and immediate—that someone would uncover the evidence.
I buried it afterward. Discipline. Diet. Film study. Weight training. Razor-sharp focus that made coaches trust me in all situations.
Learned to channel everything into hockey. To perform so well that no one looked deeper.
It worked. Until tonight.
When I sat close enough to Heath to feel him adjust his position to make room for me.
I shook my head. Pushed off again. Hard.
Except Heath was still there. In my peripheral vision. Uninvited. Persistent.
I stood at center ice. Let the building hold its breath around me. My blades had stopped moving, and without them, the silence was enormous.
I headed for the locker room.
The night was supposed to be clean. Heath Donnelly had looked at me in a bar and asked honest questions about my aquarium maintenance. Normal, nothing unusual, except what was now sitting in my chest was anything but normal.
Back in my jeans and button-down, I headed for the players' parking. My shoulders were tense. Rolled them and winced at the pull in my traps. Too much time on the ice without stretching after.
Near the main corridor, light spilled from the security office.
"Night, Mathers."
I looked up. It was Davidson. Night security. Former Chicago PD, probably sixties, always had coffee and a paperback mystery on his desk.
"Night."
"Late skate?"
"Opening night tomorrow. Wanted to get some last-minute work in."
He nodded. "You guys'll be great. That Donnelly kid—he's got something, doesn't he?"
My jaw tightened.
"Yeah," I said. "He does."
Davidson smiled. "Get some rest. Big day tomorrow."
