He nods once. “Yeah.”
“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
“You don’t look fine.”
I open my mouth to argue.
Then I close it.
“You stayed down longer than I liked,” I admit.
His expression shifts. Softer.
“It’s hockey,” he says gently.
“I know.”
I do know.
I grew up in rinks.
I know what this sport costs.
But knowing it and feeling it are two different things.
He lifts his hand like he might touch my face.
Stops.
Crowd.
People watching.
Instead, his fingers brush lightly against my wrist.
Small.
Private.
“You were the first thing I looked for,” he says.
My throat tightens.
“I’m always here,” I say.
It comes out softer than I intended.
He studies me like he is trying to decide something.
“Different tonight,” he says.
“How?”
He holds my gaze.
“Felt different.”
It did.
