Jace extracts his arm from my grip, rolling his shoulder with the weary resignation of a man whose skeletal system has been weaponized against him by his closest friend on a daily basis.
"She's going to be fine, you know." His voice carries the gentle pragmatism he deploys when my emotional velocity exceeds my rational navigation. "Mae is tougher than you give her credit for."
"I know she's tough." My pace eases further, the adrenaline of the last twenty minutes metabolizing into something calmer and heavier. "I just wish she didn't have to prove it to everyone who looks at her and sees a target."
"That's not yours to fix, Sage."
"Maybe not. But it's mine to witness. And I'm not looking away again."
Jace considers this, his golden-brown eyes carrying the patient intelligence of a man who sees more than he says and says less than he knows.
He offers a casual wave in the direction Mae disappeared.
"Good luck with the timetable, MaeMae. And the roommates. And the, you know." He gestures at the general concept of everything. "All of it."
Mae's voice carries faintly from down the hall.
"Thanks. I'll need it."
"Nah." He shakes his head, something knowing in his golden eyes. "I think you've got more going for you than you realize."
CHAPTER 15
The Switch
~SAGE~
The ice is about to become a classroom, and Mae Rose does not know she is the professor yet.
I stand near center ice, my stick resting across the tops of my thighs, watching Mae process the arena the way she processes everything: methodically, with an internal calculator running equations the rest of us do not possess the firmware to attempt. Her hazel eyes are scanning Rafe's senior squad along the boards, cataloguing their positions, their postures, the way they lean on their sticks with the casual entitlement of men who believe athletic ability is a birthright rather than a result.
She can see the flaws. I know she can because I can see her seeing them, the slight narrowing of her gaze each time a player shifts weight incorrectly or telegraphs his spatial awareness through lazy positioning. Mae grew up watching her father coach at the highest level. She spent her childhood in bleachers with a sightline that most paid analysts would trade their expense accounts for. The woman reads an ice surface theway I read a defensive gap: instinctively, comprehensively, three plays ahead of the current moment.
Archie stands beside me, his sports goggles strapped tight against his forehead, his ginger hair already wild from the cold air cycling through the arena's ventilation system. His fitted practice gear reveals the lean physique he conceals beneath school-day blazers and academic camouflage, and I can feel the subtle shift in his scent profile that signals his Alpha is closer to the surface than usual. Cedarwood sharpened by adrenaline. Graphite edged with anticipation. The amber base note carrying heat that the arena's sub-zero atmosphere cannot suppress.
Pretend you don't know me.
The instruction sits in my chest like a splinter I am learning to ignore. Because the man standing three feet from me, the one who kissed me in my bedroom and bit my lip in a locker room and called me Wildcard while whispering against my ear, is performing the role of a stranger with an accuracy that makes the mask I wear in public feel amateurish by comparison.
He addresses Mae as if he has met her twice. Exchanges practical observations about the drill format with the clipped efficiency of an academic discussing methodology. Adjusts his goggles with the nervous fidget of a nerd who is uncomfortable on ice rather than the confident calibration of a utility player who can fill five positions and has been training since infancy.
He is good at this. Better than me. His performance has no seams.
Mae calls to Coach Mercer requesting a warm-up round, and the Coach waves his approval with the easy authority of a man who enjoys watching his players get educated by people they underestimated.
"When was the last time you were on the ice?" Mae asks Archie.
His brow furrows behind the goggles. "A hot minute."
Liar. He was on this ice four days ago blocking every shot I fired at him with ninety-eighth-percentile reflexes and then biting my lip against a locker while his cock pressed against my thigh hard enough to leave an impression that my hindbrain has been replaying on a loop during every quiet moment since.
"Same," Mae sighs.
Archie adjusts his goggles. "It doesn't matter. As long as you can see the technicalities of the play, the muscle memory will follow. We're not trying to outperform them. We're trying to outthink them."
There he is. The real one. The strategist who processes the game three moves deep and deploys each word like a center distributing the puck: precisely, economically, to the exact location where it will generate the most impact.
Mae smirks. "If you say so. But if you get hit by the puck, don't say it's my fault for your cracked glasses."
