“No shit,” he groans.
I pick up my phone to look at the time. “I have to go. Are you coming with me?”
“Kind of have to.”
“I mean… I could tell them you’re sick.”
He shoves himself up and gets to his feet, putting on a fake smile. “I’ll totally be fine. Just have to change quickly.”
“It better be quick,” I say as I follow him out of my room. “Actually, I’m going with you. You need to be babysat today.”
We make our way to his room, and I wait in the main area while he changes. My phone dings. I check it. It’s a text from Roman—a shirtless mirror selfie.
“What are you looking at?” Étienne asks as he comes out of the room. I hold the phone out to show him. He dramatically swoons. “Hockey men were sent from the gods.”
“I will agree with that.”
I hook my arm in his and we head out.
Chapter Fifteen
Roman
The arena is almost peaceful at this early hour.
No crowd. No music. Just the scrape of blades and the hollow echo of pucks hitting boards.
Practice skates are routine. That’s why I like them. I know what to expect and what’s to come.
I step onto the ice and let myself settle into it. The surface is much cleaner than it’ll be tonight—freshly cut, faint snow still lining the boards.
We don’t have a game tonight. I’m so grateful the figure skating and hockey games have been opposite because I’d be distracted if Nico was performing at the same time as I am. I want to watch him win the gold. I want to see his face in real time when he realizes that he’s done the best and it paid off.
We start with light laps, then line rushes. Forwards cycling through the neutral zone. I pivot backward at the blue line, keeping my gap tight as one of our wingers comes at me half-speed.
“Angle him!” Coach calls.
I already am.
I guide him wide, stick inside, force him toward the boards. Even in a half-effort drill, details matter. Shoulder angle. Stick placement. Timing. The more you do it, the easier it becomes. It’s second nature at this point.
Everything in hockey is about timing and instinct.
The puck slides to the corner. I retrieve it, and shoulder-check Hersch. I always know who’s coming; it’s part of my job to be aware. I reverse it to McVoy, who is behind the net and waiting. It’s quick and sharp. A great play.
“Good,” he mutters as he sends it up the wall.
We reset and do it again.
Practices aren’t about contact. No one’s finishing hits or slamming into boards. No one’s throwing weight. The last thing we want to do to our own teammates is send them out on an injury. It’s about sharpening reads. Feeling the ice. Seeing patterns before they form, so we’ll be on point for our games.
On the power-play drill, I take my usual spot on the penalty kill unit. We run through coverage. Clear hard when we get the puck to send it to the other end of the ice. We get it out of our zone, killing the time they have.
The puck comes across the blue line, and I step up early, intercept the pass before it fully crosses.
Coach points at me. “That’s it. Anticipate.”
I nod once and skate back to position.
