He considers the question with the visible deliberation of a man evaluating possible outcomes and selecting the one most likely to produce a reaction he can enjoy.
"You can pick whichever glasses you think will complement me." He shrugs, the gesture carrying false casualness over genuine vulnerability. "New frames. Your choice."
I look at the wire-rimmed glasses currently perched on his nose. The ones I shattered on a trail and paid to restore and have now been informed are ugly on two separate occasions.
"Well, it's definitely not those."
He smirks, pushing the maligned frames higher on the bridge of his nose with one finger, the lens catching the arena's amber light and throwing a small prism across his cheekbone.
"C'mon." He begins skating backward toward the goal crease, his movements fluid and confident, the utility player emerging from behind the scholar's costume with a physical authority that transforms the way he occupies the ice. "Shoot your shot, Miss Lucky Shot."
"Don't underestimate me."
"Well." He settles into the crease, his posture shifting from casual to coiled, knees bending, glove lifting, the body language of a goaltender reading the shooter's stance and calibrating his response before the puck has left the blade. "As long as you don't underestimate me."
I look at him.
Framed by the goal posts, backlit by the amber glow of the arena's dawn lighting, his ginger hair catching fire at the edges, his green eyes visible even through the wire-rimmed lenses, his body coiled in the ready position of an athlete who has been pretending he cannot play and is about to demonstrate exactly how well he can.
This man is full of surprises.
And I am about to find out how many of them he has been keeping in reserve.
I settle the puck on my forehand. Drop my weight into my skating stance. Feel the edge of my blade bite the ice with the specific, committed pressure that precedes a shot designed not to test a goaltender but to beat one.
I grin.
"Bet."
CHAPTER 12
Cold Showers (Again)
~ARCHIE~
She is relentless.
Twelve minutes into the bet and Sage Holloway has not taken a single break, has not adjusted her pace, has not shown a fraction of the fatigue that should be accumulating in her legs after what I estimate to be ninety consecutive minutes of ice time counting her solo session before I materialized from whatever shadow my silent-entry training deposited me in.
She is relentless, and I am worked up in ways that have nothing to do with goaltending.
Shot after shot. Each one arriving from a different angle, a different distance, a different release point, the rubber disc screaming off her blade with a velocity that would impress most college-level coaches and terrify most college-level goalies. She cycles through her arsenal with the systematic discipline of a player who has been drilling shot technique since before her hands were large enough to grip a full-sized stick. Wrist shots from the high slot, the puck snapping off her forehand with a deceptive flick that disguises the release timing behinda compact, abbreviated wind-up. Slap shots from the point, her body generating torque through a kinetic chain that starts in her planted foot and terminates in a blade contact so clean the sound reverberates through the empty arena like a starter pistol.
I block them.
Every single one.
Glove saves on the high corners that force my arm to full extension, the leather popping with the impact of rubber against padding. Pad saves on the low attempts that send me dropping into butterfly position, my knees hitting the crease ice in synchronized splays that wall off the bottom of the net. Stick saves on the redirection attempts, my blade meeting the puck at the midpoint of its trajectory and deflecting it into the corner with a precision that owes equal credit to reflexes and the geometry I calculated three moves before she committed to the shot.
And I love every second of it.
Not the blocking itself, though the satisfaction of reading a shooter's body language correctly and positioning yourself in the exact cubic inch of space that denies the puck entry is a particular flavor of joy that non-goalies will never understand. What I love is watching her face.
The frustration manifests in stages.
First, the tightening of her jaw. A subtle compression of the muscles along her mandible that I catch through the cage of the goalie mask I borrowed from the equipment rack. Then the narrowing of her eyes, those vivid green irises constricting as her focus sharpens and her shot selection becomes more deliberate, trading volume for precision. Then the verbal component: a hiss through her teeth when a perfectly placed wrist shot catches the edge of my glove, a clipped profanity when a backhand deke that should have beaten my glove side finds the face of my pad instead.
But here is what captivates me.
