Cary Grant crossing a room without wasted motion. Smile calibrated. Voice even. The version of himself that always knew where to stand and when to pause.
In my apartment, on the couch, he’d said it was learned.
On the ice now, it was effortless.
My stomach dropped.
His signing should have felt like relief.
The extension meant Kieran was staying. Two more years. On this team. On my line.
It didn't feel like relief.
Markel blew his whistle. My group up.
I vaulted over the boards. Muscle memory carried me through the first drill.
It wasn't his plan.
He'd signed. If Kieran signed today, that must mean the Scripps deadline passed without an application.
He'd let it close.
Rook's voice cut through: "Donnelly. Boards."
I was out of position. Half a step too deep, drifting the way I used to drift when my brain outran my skates. I corrected. Got my stick down. Won the puck.
Three more reps. No errors. My body worked on autopilot.
Practice ended. Markel collected pucks while the Zamboni emerged from its tunnel.
Kieran was already heading off the ice. His stick rested across his shoulders, both hands draped over the shaft. Casual. Composed.
Except he didn't carry his stick like that. He carried it in one hand, blade down, how you carry a tool you've finished using.
I noticed because I'd spent five months learning the difference between Kieran's body and Kieran's performance.
Varga appeared beside me. "So. Mathers signed. Two years. The internet's going to be insufferable."
"Yeah."
"This is good, right? Keeps the line intact. Keeps the chemistry—" He caught himself. "The hockey chemistry."
"Yeah," I said again.
Varga studied me for half a second longer. Then the commentary resumed, and I let it wash past while I unlaced my skates and tried to name the thing that was wrong.
Around me, the locker room recalibrated.
"Two years is a term. That's commitment." Varga, recovered, holding court again.
Cross delivered the settled version. "That's allocation. Means Thompson's done shopping."
Rook didn't waste words. "Roster's set."
Which means the line stays. Donnelly and Mathers.
Kieran was at his stall. Dressed. Bag packed. He looked up, and our eyes connected across twelve feet of rubber matting.
