Mae's final shot screams past Étienne's ear as the buzzer sounds, making the goalie curse and flinch as the puck misses his face by inches.
"Shit! Sorry!" Mae is in front of him instantly, concern flooding her features. "Are you okay? I cut it too close. Did it graze you?"
Étienne gawks at her from behind his cage. Not at the near-miss. At her. At the woman in his helmet and Cal's jersey who dismantled an entire squad and is now hovering over him with the genuine worry of someone who cares more about his wellbeing than her own performance.
He murmurs in French. Low and reverent, the words carrying a devotion that makes my eyebrow climb toward my hairline. I catch enough of the syllables to recognize admiration, possibly a proposition, and definitely the kind of language that Miss Phillip would confiscate if it were submitted in written form.
Mae giggles. Blushes. Sticks out her tongue with the sheepish innocence of a woman who has no idea that the French goalie just verbally committed several acts of worship in her direction.
"What? You like what you see?"
Étienne's blue eyes darken, and the second string of French that exits his mouth is not worship. It is a threat wrapped in a promise delivered in a language designed to make filthy things sound poetic.
Did he just say what I think he said?
In front of the entire arena?
In FRENCH?
My whistle cuts across the rink before my brain finishes translating.
"ÉTIENNE LAURENT!" I skate toward them with my stick raised like a gavel, channeling the prosecutorial energy of a woman who took three years of high school French and is furious that she understood every syllable. "Did I just hear you swear?! In FRENCH?! You are supposed to be the gentleman ofthis pack! The classy one! The one who reads poetry and blushes when girls look at him!"
Archie slides his repaired glasses back on beside me, cracking his neck with the disinterested energy of a man who has seen enough romance for one afternoon.
"Ew. Y'all get a room if you're so turned on by her average performance."
Mae whips around.
"Fuck off, Archie! Average? That was art and you know it! You're just mad because I got two extra scores more than you."
Archie huffs, crossing his arms with the wounded precision of a man whose statistical output has been questioned.
"I calculated my shots properly. I held back deliberately because if I had given full strength, the puck would have hit Sage, and she isn't wearing protective gear. It was a safety-conscious decision, not a skill deficiency."
I freeze mid-skate.
The competitive bravado drains from my body in a single, disorienting rush, replaced by a warmth that settles in my chest with the quiet weight of a realization arriving three seconds too late.
He held back.
He reduced his offensive output because I was in the firing lane without pads, and he calculated the risk of hitting me and decided my safety was worth more than his score count.
In the middle of a drill where his reputation was on the line, where twenty Alphas were watching him play for the first time, where every shot mattered for the impression he was building, he chose my protection over his performance.
And he did it without telling me.
Without announcing it. Without making it a gesture or a statement or a transaction that required my gratitude in exchange.
He just did it.
"Oh." My voice comes out softer than intended, stripped of the volume and the bravado and the defensive armor I wear on ice. "Wait. You weren't going full throttle because I was in the way? You held back to avoid hurting me?"
I press my hand against my sternum, the gesture involuntary, my palm flattening over the exact spot where the warmth has settled and is now radiating outward with the persistent, spreading heat of a feeling I am not equipped to categorize.
"Well, that's kind of romantic."
The words exit my mouth before my filter catches them, carried on the residual honesty of a moment that disarmed me faster than any opponent on the ice ever has.
