"It's your bed too."
She snorts and climbs in beside me, propping pillows against the headboard, settling in with her magazine. The rustle of pages becomes background noise as I continue watching film. Every so often I glance over at her. The way she chews her bottom lip when she's concentrating. The little furrow between her eyebrows when she reads something interesting.
Her bare legs are tucked under her, toes painted some bright color I can't name. Her dark blonde curls are loose now, falling around her shoulders in waves. Those green eyes track across the page,completely absorbed in whatever article she's reading about rotator cuff injuries.
Scout's fucking adorable and doesn't even realize it. Cute doesn't begin to cover it.
An hour passes. Then another. The laptop screen casts a blue glow across the darkened room. Scout's magazine slips from her fingers, her breathing evening out into sleep. She's curled on her side facing me, one hand tucked under her cheek, head tilted at an odd angle.
She doesn't stir as I gently move her onto a pillow. She just keeps breathing slowly, peacefully. Apparently she trusts me enough to fall asleep beside me while I'm wound tight with anxiety about tomorrow's game.
Looking at her now, something settles in my chest. A feeling that's been building for weeks but I've been too stubborn or scared to acknowledge.
I swear, I tried to lie to myself, to resist her. I told myself she was only a temporary roommate. Pretended that keeping her at arm's length and not letting her matter could work.
Scout's essential, though. Not just helpful or convenient or good company. She's essential. Like breathing. Like hockey. Like… the ice beneath my skates.
Closing my laptop, I slide down in bed and pull her against my chest. She mumbles something sleepy and incoherent, burrowing closer. Her body fits against mine perfectly, like we were designed to fit together exactly this way.
Sleep doesn't come easy. My brain's still churning through film, through Ryan's words, through the fear that being enough won't happen if constant physicality doesn't occur. But having Scout here helps. It grounds me.
Eventually exhaustion wins. I drift off with her curled in my arms, trying to believe that tomorrow will be okay.
The arena buzzes with pre-game energy. I’m consumed by lacing my skates in the locker room and trying to quiet the voice in my head that says this new approach is going to fail spectacularly.
"You good?" Thorne drops onto the bench beside me, already in full gear.
"Yeah. Just trying something different tonight."
"Different how?"
"Less aggressive. More… strategic." The words feel foreign in my mouth.
Thorne's eyebrows rise. "You? Less aggressive? Did Coach threaten to bench you?"
"Something like that." I finish with my skates and stand, rolling my shoulders. "We'll see how it goes."
Taking the ice for warmups, I repeat Scout's words in my head like a mantra.You don't have to meet every sensation with force. You don't have to meet every sensation with force.
Scanning the crowd during warmups, I spot her immediately. Section 112, three rows up. Scout's wearing my jersey with the number 12 stretched across her back, her dark blonde curls spilling over the dark gray fabric. She's leaning forward in her seat, elbows on her knees, watching me with those green eyes that see everything. When she catches me looking, she grins and waves.
Something in my chest tightens. She came. She's here wearing my number, cheering me on while I try something that terrifies me.
The first period starts and gameplay is choppy and quick-moving. The opposing team comes out swinging, all aggression and speed. Within the first two minutes, there's anopportunity. Their winger gets too close to Jett, stick up high, and I’m already moving to intercept.
Then I stop. Blowing out a breath, I pull back and watch.
Jett handles it himself. He shrugs off the contact and maintains possession, scooping it up with his stick and shooting it to Thorne. Thorne takes it and skates like his ass is on fire. Less than a minute later, Thorne shoots the puck past the other team’s goalie and the horn sounds.
Glancing toward section 112, I see Scout on her feet, cheering. The jersey swamps her frame, hanging to her thighs. She looks ridiculous and perfect and…mine.
As I clamber back onto the bench, Hunter claps me on the shoulder. And all I can think is that the new approach works. Holy shit, it actually works.
More opportunities to try it out come. Small moments where normally throwing a hit just to send a message would happen. Instead, I hang back, wait, try to see if I’m needed. For the most part, my teammates handle themselves. They don't need me constantly intervening like some overprotective enforcer who doesn't trust his team.
Halfway through the second period, everything changes. Their defenseman slashes Thorne hard across the wrist, deliberate and vicious. The refs miss it completely. Thorne drops his stick, shaking out his hand, and skates toward the bench, unable to grip properly.
My blood boils. That's the kind of cheap shot that deserves an answer.
