“I know exactly where it is,” I said. “You drew it.”
He exhaled through his nose, pacing once to the window and back, teeth tugging at a scar along his lip. The overhead light buzzed. I didn’t move.
Finally, he spoke, quiet but rough. “You earned every lap today. I pushed because you can handle it, not because of the other night.”
“Prove it tomorrow,” I said. “Push everyone else the same.”
He nodded once, the motion sharp. “Get out of here, Donovan.”
I turned for the door. His voice stopped me halfway through.
“You left first,” he said, “but you’re still standing here.”
I waited for him to bark another order, some smart remark wrapped in gravel, but instead he stared at the floor like the words were hiding down there somewhere. The air between us had that strange stillness after a fight—no winner, just exhaustion.
He rubbed a hand over his face, muttering something I didn’t catch, then looked straight at me.
“You’re good. Maybe the best on the roster.”
The words landed off-balance, like even he didn’t mean to let them escape.
I blinked. “What?”
He didn’t flinch. “You play like the ice is the only place that’s ever made sense to you. I see that. And that’s why I push you harder.”
Everything in me went quiet. No one had ever said anything close to that. Not Nate with his backhand compliments and PR smiles. Not my old coaches obsessed with statistics and sponsorship logos. Not even my parents, who treated hockey like a hobby I’d outgrow once I found something “real.”
I opened my mouth, lost the words, closed it again. The hum of the vending machine outside the office was louder than either of us.
He exhaled, shoulders loosening for the first time all day. There were dark circles under his eyes, the kind that spoke of long nights and second thoughts.
“You could’ve just said that,” I muttered.
“Would’ve been easier if I hadn’t already—” He stopped, jaw tightening. The sentence hung there, half built, heavy as the smell of ice melt and sweat.
The rest didn’t need saying. It sat between us: the hotel sheets, the heat we pretended never happened, the impossible line neither of us could erase. My pulse tripped over itself, anyway.
He looked away first, eyes dragging across the grey window glass. “You should go. Tomorrow’s drills start early.”
I wanted to hate him for switching back to coach mode, but my throat betrayed me with a nod. “Right.”
When I reached the door, he spoke again—so soft I almost thought I imagined it. “Keep playing like that, Donovan. Don’t let anyone dull it because of me.”
I paused with my hand on the handle. “Guess you’ll have to make sure they don’t.”
The hum of the compressors filled the space between us, that low mechanical heartbeat that always lived under the ice. We stood too close. His shadow cut through mine against the glass, the smell of cold air and chalk from his gloves mixing with sweat and old coffee. Every sound in the rink—dripping pipes, hollow boards—felt louder, closer, like the walls had decided to listen in.
Calder didn’t move, but his eyes did. They dragged down, then up again, landing on my mouth before snapping back to my face. Regret lived there—clear, raw—but under it was something darker, hungrier. I felt it slide through me before I could stop it. My brain laced up its defenses; my body untied them.
“Don’t look at me like that.”
His voice came low. “Like what?”
“Like you remember.”
The words came out sharper than I meant, but I didn’t take them back. Because hedidremember—I could see it. Theshallow rise of his chest, the way his jaw worked like he wanted to say something he’d regret in six different ways. The silence between us went electric.
He exhaled, one shoulder twitching, like he might laugh if it didn’t hurt. The breath he let out brushed my face, warm in the freezing air. It woke things that didn’t need waking. My heart dragged behind my ribs, clumsy and loud.
