This isn't about hockey.
This is ego.
The locker room after practice is half-empty; most guys have already showered and gone. I'm sitting on the bench with an icepack pressed against my ribs, my compression wrap on the floor beside me, when Theo approaches.
He's dressed already — jeans, hoodie, backpack slung over one shoulder. Showered and ready to leave while I'm still trying to figure out if I cracked another rib.
"You're slow," he says, not sitting down, just standing over me.
I look up at him. "Bruised."
"You hesitated."
"I didn't."
Theo steps closer, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. "Don't."
That's it. One word. No elaboration. No threat.
Just command.
He walks away, and I'm left sitting there with the ice pack slowly warming against my skin, trying to figure out what the fuck just happened.
Except I know what happened.
Theo's reminding me where I stand.
I make it to my truck by nine, tossing my gear bag in the back and climbing into the driver's seat with a grimace. My ribs hurt with every movement — getting in, settling back, reaching for the seatbelt.
My phone buzzes before I can start the engine.
Adela: Are you free later?
I stare at the text longer than I should.
Simple. Controlled. Not emotional. Not needy. Just a question.
The old Adela — the one from just yesterday — would have called. She would’ve been crying, panicking, or falling apart. She would have needed me to save her.
This Adela is different.
I should say no. Should make an excuse. Should put distance between us before Theo notices the way I'm starting to think about her when I shouldn't be.
Instead, I type: Yeah.
The reply comes immediately: My place at 7?
I'll be there.
I set the phone down and start the truck, pulling out of the parking lot before I can change my mind.
My phone buzzes again before I've made it two blocks.
Theo: She's accelerating. Redirect.
I grip the steering wheel tighter, my ribs protesting the tension.
Got it.
