"You handled that well."
"I didn't handle anything. I just stood there while a teenager attacked me with affection."
"That's handling it." I finish my cookie. "You're good with them."
"They're easy. Teenagers just want someone to pay attention."
"Most people don't bother."
"Most people are lazy." She starts gathering empty water bottles, stacking them in a bin. I watch her move. The bend ofher waist. The stretch of her arms. The way those leggings cling to her thighs when she crouches.
Control, Negrorio.
"I should clean up," she says.
"I'll help."
We work in silence. Collecting bottles. Straightening benches. Picking up forgotten tape and discarded gloves. The rink empties around us. Boys trickling out, calling goodbyes, promises to practice their drills.
Danny Wheeler stops at the door.
"Thanks, Jessica." His voice is barely audible. "For what you said."
"Which part?"
"The part about not giving up." He scuffs his shoe against the rubber matting. "My dad says I'm too small. That I should quit and try something else."
Jessica sets down the bin she's holding and crosses to him. I watch her crouch again, meeting his eyes.
"Your dad's wrong."
"He's usually right about stuff."
"Not about this." Her voice is fierce. Certain. "Small doesn't mean weak. It means fast. It means you can slip through gaps the big guys can't. It means you have to be smarter, work harder, want it more." She puts her hand on his shoulder. "And you want it. I can see it every time you're on the ice."
Danny's eyes are suspiciously bright. "You think I can score?"
"I think you're going to score at the Riverside game. And I think your dad's going to eat his words."
"That's... that's in five days."
"Better start practicing."
Danny stares at her for a long moment. Then he nods, sets his jaw, and marches out of the rink like a soldier heading into battle.
Jessica watches him go.
"His dad sounds like an asshole," she says quietly.
"His dad is an asshole." I move to stand beside her. "Rich guy. Thinks money means his opinion matters more than everyone else's."
"I know the type."
She does. Callum's family is exactly that type.
"What you said to him. Did you mean it?"
"Every word." She turns to face me. We're close now. Closer than we've been all morning. I can see the golden flecks in her brown eyes. Can count the freckles across her nose.
