"Thanks," I manage.
"Ryder know you're here?" Trace asks, which is a completely innocent question that makes me want to sink through the floor.
"I said I'd come," I say quickly. "Support him. It's what you do when you're dating someone, right?"
Trace and Gage exchange that look again—the one that says they know exactly what happened and are just waiting for me to confirm it.
The team skates out for warmups, and my heart literally stops.
Ryder's at the front of the line, helmet tucked under his arm, dark hair still damp from whatever pre-game ritual hockey players do. He's scanning the crowd, and when his eyes find me in the front row wearing his jersey, he freezes.
We just stare at each other, and the entire rink could disappear and I wouldn't notice.
Then someone crashes into him from behind—Jax, probably—and the moment breaks. Ryder shakes his head and skates to the bench, but not before I catch the look on his face. The way his shoulders tense, the way he doesn't quite meet my eyes for more than a heartbeat—he's nervous. Just as nervous as I am.
"Well, that wasn't awkward at all," Tessa mutters beside me.
The warmups are torture. Every time Ryder skates past our section, I swear I can feel him looking at me. Not just looking—studying. Like he's trying to figure out what I'm thinking fromacross the rink through plexiglass and about seventeen layers of protective equipment.
I try to focus on the game prep, but all I can think about is the way his hands felt on my skin. The way he kissed me like I was the only thing that mattered. The way he left.
Then the arena lights shift, and "Footloose" blasts through the speakers.
The entire team forms a line at center ice and launches into their pre-game dance ritual. Full choreography. While balancing on blades. With hockey sticks as props.
I've seen this before—Ryder doing the sprinkler with complete commitment, Jax attempting some kind of spin move that nearly takes out two teammates, the whole team dropping to one knee at the end while the crowd loses their minds. But watching it again, knowing everything that's happened between us, watching this serious, intense man do perfectly timed hip thrusts with a hockey stick overhead—I laugh so hard I snort.
Tessa elbows me. "See? He's fine."
"He's doing the running man on ice while looking like he wants to murder someone," I say between gasps. "That's not fine. That's?—"
Ryder catches my eye mid-sprinkler move. For just a second, his intensity cracks and something else flashes across his face. Then he's back to the routine, committing fully to something ridiculous because it's tradition, because his team needs it, because that's who he is.
The routine ends with the team dropping to one knee, arms spread wide. The crowd goes absolutely wild.
And my chest aches because I'm so gone for this man it's not even funny.
The team breaks from their pose and skates back to the bench, all business now. The playfulness vanishes as they huddle up, helmets together, Ryder's voice carrying across the ice eventhough I can't make out the words. When they break apart, his face has shifted completely—locked in, focused, ready.
The opposing team takes the ice. The referee positions the puck at center ice.
The buzzer sounds, and the game starts.
Within the first thirty seconds, I realize something's different.
Ryder's playing angry.
Not sloppy-angry or reckless-angry. Controlled-angry. Like every hit is personal, every play is about proving something. He checks a guy into the boards so hard the whole crowd winces. Steals the puck and rockets down the ice like he's being chased by demons. Takes a shot that misses the goal by inches but hits the glass behind it with a sound like thunder.
"Jesus," Gage says. "What did you do to him?"
"Nothing!" But that's the problem, isn't it? We did everything, and then nothing.
By the end of the first period, Ryder has an assist, two penalties, and looks like he's one bad call away from fighting someone. The crowd's going wild—this is the kind of hockey they came to see—but I can barely breathe watching him.
"Is he always like this?" I ask Tessa during the intermission.
"Not even close. Usually he's steady. Calculated. This is—" She watches as Ryder skates to the bench and chugs water like he's been in a desert. "This is a man with feelings."
