It keeps flicking to the glass like my eyes have their own magnet in them. I tell myself not to look, then I look anyway, quick enough that no one can call me out for it.
She’s there.
Not front and center the way some girls sit—leaning forward, trying to be seen. Harlow is a few rows up, slightly off to the side, tucked into herself like a question mark. Oversized hoodie. Dark hair loose. Hands wrapped around a bottle like it’s a grounding object.
She isn’t watching the guys. She’s watching the ice.
Like she’s looking at the only thing in the building that doesn’t ask anything of her.
The sight hits harder than it should.
I take a pass on my forehand, and it jumps off my blade because my hands are half a second late.
Coach Graves’ whistle splits the air. “BENNETT.”
I pivot toward him, coasting in. “Yeah?”
He points his stick like a weapon. “You planning to be awake today, or is this a participation thing?”
Heat crawls up my neck. “I’m awake.”
“Then skate like it,” he barks. “Again. And this time, don’t handle the puck like it’s a live grenade.”
I nod once and push back into line, legs burning as I reset.
Weston glides by, shoulder bumping mine like he can’t help himself. “You good, buddy?”
“Fine,” I mutter.
Weston’s eyes flick toward the stands—toward Harlow—then back to me. His mouth curves like he’s about to say something that will ruin my life. I cut him off with a look that says,don’t you dare. Weston grins wider because he thrives on danger.
Kai skates past next, calm and contained, like he didn’t just read the entire rink in one glance. Captain Mercer doesn’t talk much in warm-up. He doesn’t have to. He just exists like structure.
He glances at me once with a quick inventory: eyes, posture, focus.
Then he says, quiet enough only I can hear it, “Skate.”
One word. Not encouragement.
A command.
It works.
Coach runs us through a flow warm-up that normally feels like muscle memory: swing low, hit the middle, quick touch to the far wing, regroup back through the neutral zone, controlled entry.
It should be simple.
It isn’t.
Not when my head keeps drifting upward.
Not when I can feel her there the way you feel a storm coming before you see clouds.
We get into a regroup sequence—center swings low, D hits him, quick bump to the wing, back to the middle, then we attack with speed.
Weston fires a pass to me at the blue line.
I catch it, take two strides, and my brain chooses that exact moment to remember the way Harlow holds her breath when something is too much.
