"Show me," I said.
He skated over. My pulse picked up with every stride that brought him closer. He had changed out of his suit into practice gear—a compression shirt that showed every line of muscle, a Storm practice jersey over it. His hair was still damp, curling slightly at his temples.
He positioned himself in the shooting stance. "Sixty-forty weight distribution. Front leg loaded for the transfer. Back leg just for stability and push."
I nodded. I tried to copy the position.
"No." He skated behind me. "May I?"
The question was careful. It was so unlike earlier when he had just grabbed me during drills. This was different. We both knew it was different.
"Yeah," I said.
His hands settled on my hips to adjust my stance.
Even through layers of gear, I felt the heat of him. I felt the careful control in how he touched me—like he was afraid of breaking something. Or afraid he wouldn't want to let go.
"Here." He tapped my left hip. "Feel that weight shift?"
I tried to focus on the technical adjustment. I failed completely. He was right behind me, chest nearly touching my back, his breath warm against my neck.
"Try it," he said, stepping back.
I took the shot. The puck rocketed into the net with noticeably more velocity.
"Better," he said. His voice had gone rough.
I turned around. "Again."
We ran through it five more times. Each rep, his hands on me adjusted, guided, corrected. Each time, the space between us felt smaller. The air felt thicker.
On the sixth rep, I didn't take the shot. I just stayed in the stance, his hands on my hips.
"Why did you fight tonight?" I asked.
His hands tightened on my jersey. "You know why."
"Say it."
"Theo..."
"You dropped your gloves for me." I turned in his grip to face him. We were inches apart now. "You haven't fought once in ten years. You lost control. Why?"
His jaw worked. In the flat rink lighting, I could see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the cuts on his knuckles from the fight. The pulse jumping in his throat.
"Because he hurt you," Luca said finally. "And I—I couldn't—" He cut himself off, looking away.
"You couldn't what?"
"This is a bad idea."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer you're getting."
I laughed. It was sharp and humorless, echoing in the empty rink. "You know what I think? I think you're terrified. I think you've been terrified for so long you've forgotten what anything else feels like."
His eyes snapped back to mine. "You don't know anything about me."
