I watched the muscle in his jaw shift when he clenched it. The barely-there tremor in his fingers. He was holding something down—anger, shame, recognition—something I could feel from the length of the rink. It hit like static, pricking my skin.
He started pacing, blades scraping on the ice. “You think this is a joke,” he said. “You think because it’s new, because this school wants to look progressive, that you can coast. You can’t. I don’t care who your parents are, or what scholarship you’re clinging to. You either give everything here, or you sit.”
The whisper came again from the far end, quieter now, “He’s serious, huh?”
I couldn’t tear my eyes from him. The breath fogged out of me in even bursts, masking the heat climbing up my neck. Ifanyone looked, they’d think I was concentrating, not fighting the reminder of his hand against my hip.
He turned toward us again. His eyes caught mine—a flick, nothing more—but it felt like being slammed in the chest.
“Everybody skate,” he said.
I dropped my gaze, snapped my helmet on, and pushed off, forcing air into my lungs. The ice bit through my blades like it wanted blood. I welcomed it.
Professional, I told myself.He was keeping it professional.
Barely.
My pulse hammered so hard I could taste it. Helmet halfway to my head, hands trembling so bad the cage rattled. That man—the one who’d pressed me to a wall, skin to skin, voice low and rough in my ear—stood yards away with a whistle around his neck. And he owned the next chapter of my life.
Skate blades scratched the ice in restless circles. Every few seconds, a flash of memory cut through—his breath against my collarbone, fingers tracing my spine, the way he’d steadied me when my legs gave out. I shoved the images down, stacking them behind anger, pride, anything that would keep me upright.
Paige finished her announcements and drifted off, clipboard hugged to her chest. He blew the whistle once. Sharp. The team jolted forward like a flock startled into flight. I should’ve moved with them, but my knees locked.
He looked straight at me. Not long. Just one beat too many. Then his voice—steady, businesslike. “You skating, or you standing there for decoration?”
The girls nearest to me snorted. Heat rushed up my neck. I tugged my helmet on and dropped onto the ice.
This is your shot, Donovan. You throw it away now, and you were never serious.
Coach Calder Shaw could ruin me before the week was over. But hiding wouldn’t save me. I’d already done enough of that—with Nate, with fear, with every excuse I’d made for not chasing what I wanted.
I shoved off hard, blades carving deep, lungs burning cold. The rink stopped feeling like a trap and started feeling like a test. Crossover, sprint, pivot, again. I focused on the bite of steel, the push of each stride, the ache climbing my thighs.
He called drills in that gruff monotone, no trace of the man from the bar. Still, I caught the flick of his eyes each time I passed his line of sight. Assessing. Remembering. Maybe regretting.
I didn’t care what he felt. I cared that I belonged here. That when he looked, he’d see skill, not a mistake.
Sweat slicked my palms inside my gloves. I bent into another turn, chased the puck down the boards, flipped a pass clean across the slot. My breath tore out in ragged bursts, head pounding but clear.
I wasn’t running. Not anymore.
He didn’t stop moving. Not once. That whistle kept slicing through the cold air, sharper than his voice.
“Again.”
Our lungs burned, our jerseys clung to sweat, and still he paced the boards like the ice was part of him. Every drill rolled into the next—transitions, sprints, puck retrieval under pressure. My legs screamed, but the rhythm took over. Push, glide, fire. Push, glide, fire.
“Pick it up, twenty-seven.” He barked it at Lo from the back line, then turned before her comeback finished forming. Nothing stuck to him—not sass, not exhaustion.
I wanted to hate it. The roughness, the impatience. But I recognized that tone. The one that made you sharper or broke you, depending on what you were built for.
Then came the shot accuracy circuit. Five pucks, five corners, full speed. He stood behind the net, arms crossed, watching likehe could see inside your lungs. When it was my turn, my stick felt too light. I hit four out of five. The last one clanged off the bar so hard it echoed.
A few groans, one sarcastic“close enough.”He cut through that noise before I could even lower my blade.
“Close enough means you lose the game,” he said. His gaze hit mine. Not hard. Just direct. Like there was only one player on the ice.
My throat dried up. “Got it.”
