And that’s when I see her.
Two rows up, behind the glass. Dark hair spilling over her shoulders, white sweater and jeans, lanyard tucked in her pocket.
Casual. Unofficial.
Not supposed to be here.
Still here.
My pulse stutters as I hit the bench, trying to breathe.
She came.
Not because of her father.
Because of me.
Maybe there’s still a chance.
“Steele! Don’t make me regret putting you back in.” Keller taps the boards and I lock in, chewing my mouthguard.
I hop the boards and skate back out, my focus narrowing to gleaming white ice and black jerseys. The puck comes up my side. I step into their winger, finishing the check.
Clean, square.
But hard enough to rattle the glass.
Harder than necessary.
The boards shudder and the crowd boos. I peel off fast, glancing up on instinct. Catch her eye.
She doesn’t flinch.
Her fingers work the gold chain, her scarlet lips tight.
Not impressed.
Not thrilled.
Not buying my act.
Like she can see right through the hit to the reason behind it.
I’m pissed at the world right now — and there’s not a fucking thing I can do about it.
Optics.
My gut tangles as I skate past the bench, Keller’s glare burning into me.
Assessing.
Last chance, Steele.
The score’s still 0–1, Sounders, and there’s only three minutes left in the period.
Fix it. Now.
I take the puck on my next touch and don’t look for the safe play. I look for the highlight.
