It hasn’t happened again, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t been paranoid about it ever since.
My eyes keep drifting back to the screens, searching for a glimpse of Cooper standing in front of the goaltender’s box. I keep hoping they’ll show him when he takes his helmet off during a stoppage to take a drink.
Just seeing him skate onto the ice wearing his number—87 stitched boldly across his back—does something strange to my stomach.
I can’t pretend it doesn’t pull me right back to the messages we exchanged onDead Zone.
I checked them again before my shift. He hasn’t been online since we last talked. I keep replaying that conversation in my head, wondering what he’d say if he knew who I really am. If he’d laugh or be mad, or if he’d feel as thrown off as I do.
I’m not sure if I’m ready for him to know yet, though.
Cooper hops over the boards and settles into position again, rolling his shoulders like he’s shaking off tension. I’ve never been this invested in a game before. Every time the play moves toward him, he drops into position, and I realize I’m holding my breath like I’m bracing for impact.
“Beer.”
The voice snaps me back. I blink, refocusing on the bill waving impatiently in my face. I grab a glass, fill it, and slide it across the bar with a polite smile that feels stretched too tight.
When I glance back up at the screen, I see Keaton, from the other team, is already charging forward again.
Macklin Greer.
Even I’ve heard his name before.
The commentators were talking before the game, calling him the kind of player who sets the tone—whatever that means. All I really caught was that he used to play rough. That he had to learn how to rein it in to be here. But watching him now, I can tell… the edge is still there. It just looks different.
The puck deflects, and one of their players charges straight toward the net. Cooper drops low, putting himself right in the way.
It all happens in a blink.
They slam into each other hard—shoulder to shoulder—but Cooper takes the brunt of it. His body jolts on impact, his leg catching wrong as they both go down.
The puck slides away, and the whistle blows. The crowd in the bar reacts a second later, watching the replay, and I realize I’m not the only one holding my breath.
Greer is already skating away with a smirk, not even bothering to look back.
Cooper rolls once before pushing up onto his knees. His stick clatters beside him, and for a split second, he just stays there, his right arm held tight against his side.
Then he stands, moving slowly.
Cooper gets up, rolling his shoulder once. It’s subtle, almost nothing, like he’s trying to shake it off without making it obvious. But I know what he looks like when he’s okay.
And that… isn’t it.
My grip tightens around the bar rag, the noise of the room fading under the rush in my ears.
Someone skates out to check on him, crouching in front of him. They talk briefly, and Cooper nods almost immediately.
Of course he does.
A second later, he’s back in position like nothing happened. If you didn’t know him, you’d think he was fine.
But something about the way Macklin Greer skated off like it was nothing makes my lip curl.
The game keeps going, but I don’t relax. I can’t. Every time the puck comes near him, my chest tightens all over again. Especially when I catch the way he favors his left side just slightly. It’s small—the way he shifts before he moves, as if he’s bracing for it. The hesitation before he reaches, and how quickly he pulls back, like something doesn’t feel right.
No one else notices. But I do.
I keep pouring drinks, wiping down the counter, nodding along when someone talks to me. My hands move without thought, the familiar routine carrying me through orders andtabs, but my eyes keep drifting back to the screen around the bar.
