She nods slowly, processing.
Her fingers brush the number on the jersey, tracing it like she’s trying to understand what she’s wearing. “It still feels strange.”
“Yeah.” My voice comes out lower than I expect. “It does.”
The PA crackles: “Warm-up in ten.”
“Go find your section,” I say. “You’ll be fine.”
“And if I’m not?”
“Then look for seventy-one.”
I turn toward the locker room.
“I’ll be watching, O’Connor.”
I glance back and wink. “That’s the plan, babe.”
The cocky grin stays on my face until I round the corner.
Then it dies.
The locker roomhits like a wall—heat and tape glue, sweat already thick in the air. Bass pounds from the speakers hard enough to rattle my teeth. Helmets clatter, sticks tap, blades scrape against rubber mats.
I’m halfway into my shoulder pads when Reed’s voice cuts through the noise.
“O’Connor’s got himself a fan club tonight.”
He’s leaning against his stall, eyes bright with mean amusement. “Tutor looks good in your number. You tapping that yet, or is the bet still live?”
The room shifts. Around me, voices drop. Mason’s hands are immobile on his tape. Riley suddenly finds his skates fascinating. Dax ties his laces tighter, jaw set.
My limbs turn taut. She’s here. Right now. Fifty yards away, pulling on my jersey, thinking this is part of our arrangement to make another guy jealous.
And Reed just reminded everyone it started as something else entirely.
“Drop it,” I hiss, focusing on my gloves.
Reed laughs, pushing off his stall. “Come on, it’s a friendly wager. Isabelle wants updates. We’re all just wondering if you’ve made any progress.”
He nods toward Mason. “Maybe she’s tutoring you too?”
“Knock it off,” Mason rasps.
Reed keeps going, feeding off the attention. “You hand a girl your jersey, it usually means you’ve scored. On or off the ice.”
Something in me snaps.
“Talk about her again,” I say slowly, looking up, “and you’re eating through a straw. She’s not a wager. She’s not a joke. And she’s not yours to discuss.”
The room goes dead quiet. Even the music feels too loud.
Reed’s smile thins. “When did you grow a conscience?”
“I didn’t.” The denial comes fast, automatic, already a lie I can feel settling. “But she’s not part of your running commentary.”
He closes the distance, voice dropping. “She was always part of the plan. Isabelle’s game, your execution.”
