The silence stretched between us. Joel sipped his latte. I held the photo like it might disappear if I looked away.
I owed him something back. He'd given me something that mattered, even wrapped up as a gift for someone else.
"I have a game Friday," I said. "Home game, seven o'clock. I can get you seats if you want to see what real skating looks like."
Cocky. But cocky was the only way I knew how to offer something that actually mattered. Hockey was the one thing I had, the one thing I was good at, and I was handing him a ticket like an invitation to judge me.
Joel shifted, and the silver mesh caught the light when he shifted.
"I thought you only wore black," I said, and reached out before I could stop myself.
My fingers touched the mesh where it covered his chest. The fabric was cool and fine, almost like touching water, and underneath it his skin pressed back against my fingertips.
Joel's hand closed around my wrist. His eyes locked onto mine.
This was the moment where I was supposed to look away and back down.
I didn't.
His grip tightened until it hurt, his thumb pressing into the soft inside of my wrist where the blood ran close. The pressure sent a jolt straight down my spine, and I bit the inside of my cheek to keep quiet.
I still didn't look away.
Neither of us moved until I pulled my hand back slowly and he let me go.
"Friday," he said. "Seven o'clock." He picked up his gear bag and slung it over his shoulder, the movement smooth and easy like we hadn't just been two seconds away from something neither of us could take back. "I'll think about it."
He walked past me toward the locker room and didn't look back.
I stood there with the signed photo in one hand and my other wrist still warm where he'd held it.
"Jesus Christ," I said to the empty rink. “This is such a bad idea.”
"Explain to me again why we're here?"
Natalia glared at the ice like it had offended her.
I didn't answer.
"You hate crowds," Natalia continued. "You hate loud noises. You hate—" She gestured at the ice, where players were warming up in matching red and white jerseys. "Whatever this is."
"It's hockey."
"I know it's hockey. What I don't know is why we're watching it." She turned to look at me. "You don't do things without reasons, Joel. So what's the reason?"
On the ice, a player with red hair was skating lazy circles near the goal. He looked different in full gear, broader and more armored, his face half-hidden behind a helmet. But I'd recognize the way he moved anywhere.
"Research," I said.
"Research."
"Cross-training perspectives. Hockey players have excellent edge work."
Natalia stared at me. I kept my eyes on the ice, watching the opposing team run drills. Number 44 had a hitch in his stride, favoring his right ankle. The goalie cheated left on high shots. Their enforcer telegraphed every check with his shoulders.
I filed all of it away without trying. I couldn't turn it off if I wanted to.
"You're a terrible liar," Natalia said finally.
