I’m on the bench when it happens, watching Kai skate past the glass with that hard, controlled intensity he lives in.
My eyes flick upward again. Harlow’s on her feet, clapping this time. Not loud. Not dramatic. But real. Kai’s jersey looks too big on her, and the sight does something twisted in my chest. Pride for him. Envy for me. Want that I have no business wanting.
I’m not supposed to want her to wear mine. I’m not supposed to imagine what it would look like, her swallowed in my name, her eyes locked on me like I’m the only thing in the building. I choke it down and skate through my shift like a man trying to outrun his own thoughts.
Coleson plays cleaner after Kai’s scolding. Still physical, still chirpy, but he stops crossing the line into stupid. Kai keeps him in check anyway—one glare at a time.
The third period is where it gets tight.
The other team presses. The puck stays in our end too long. Asher makes a big save that brings the whole building to its feet. My legs burn. My lungs feel like sandpaper.
With three minutes left, we get a power play.
Coach points at me and Weston. “You. You. End it.”
Kai wins the faceoff clean, sliding it back to me on the half wall.
I look up, and the lane is there.
I fake the shot, pull the puck in, then snap a pass across the seam to Weston. He one-times it.
Net.
3–1.
The crowd explodes.
Weston throws his arms up, hands motioning to the crowd for more praise. Cocky little shit.
We pile on him anyway.
And again—like my body has its own magnet—I look up. Harlow is smiling. Not small. Not careful. But a real smile that makes her whole face soften. She presses her hands to hermouth again like she’s trying to keep it in, like it’s too big for her to hold.
And for one dangerous second, my brain supplies the thought like a prayer and a curse:
I want her to look at me like that.
Not because I assisted a goal. Not because I’m a hockey player. Because I’m me.
The final horn sounds.
We win.
The handshake line blurs. The postgame noise hits like a wave. Coach claps shoulders. Fans yell names. Someone shouts about next weekend. I do the normal things. Smile when expected. Answer quick questions. Let a scout shake my hand with that firm grip that meansI’m evaluating you even right now.
My head nods. My mouth moves.
But my attention is already gone.
Because I know where she’ll be.
I spot her in the hallway near the locker room entrance, half tucked against the concrete like she’s not sure where she’s allowed to stand. The jersey sleeves are pulled down over her hands. Her hair is loose. Her eyes are bright.
Kai is a few feet away, talking to Asher, posture relaxed but still alert, like he can’t fully turn off.
Harlow looks up when she sees me. The hallway quiets in my head.
“You were really good,” she says softly.
