“Yeah, I am.”
“Donovan, don’t even start.” She pointed the spray of her hairbrush at me like a weapon. “You’re coming. You owe me a drink for that assist.”
Reese nodded, helmet full of contraband IDs balanced on her knee. “One drink. You earned it. Even Coach looked—” she cut herself off, smirk flashing. “—uh, impressed.”
My smile twitched, died quick. I folded my elbow pad, suddenly fascinated by Velcro. “Can’t. I’ve got a midterm Monday.”
Groans circled the room.
“You’re such a nerd,” Kira shot back. “Who studies on a Saturday after a win?”
I tried for a laugh. “Me. Someone’s got to keep the team GPA decent.”
Reese dragged out the words like taffy. “Come on, justonedrink. You can quiz us on anatomy while we toast.”
I kept packing, each motion slower than needed. “Do you know what anatomy even is?” I asked. “Go celebrate.”
It wasn’t false—the team deserved to glow tonight. But the truth stuck somewhere deeper. I could study later. I just didn’t want to be around people. Not around him. Not near the look that had flickered across the bench after the game like electricity hunting ground.
Kira slung her duffel over her shoulder and aimed a slow squint at me. “Fine. But if you change your mind, text. We’ll save you a barstool and Reese’s bad dancing.”
Reese blew me a kiss. “Don’t wait up. They actually pay me to keep DJing once people realize I can’t shoot whiskey but I can spin it.”
Laughter trailed them out, echoing in layers down the concrete hallway until the door swung shut.
The speaker sputtered into silence. Drops from the showerheads kept time against tile. I sat there awhile, half-dressed, the smell of ice and sweat fading to cleaner air, the victory hum finally quiet enough for me to hear my own heartbeat.
The hallway outside the locker room felt hollow after everyone left. Fluorescent lights hummed above me, steady and too bright. My skates dangled from their laces around my neck, dripping faint meltwater on the concrete. The echo of laughter had faded down the tunnel, leaving only the faint scrape of a mop somewhere in the distance and the steady rhythm of my heartbeat.
I pressed my back against the cinder-block wall and let out a slow breath. My muscles still burned, the good kind of ache. For a moment, I almost wanted it quiet forever. Then footsteps cut through the stillness — heavier, slower, purposeful.
Calder.
He walked in, head down, clipboard tucked under one arm, doing what he always did after practice—a final sweep, making sure gear wasn’t left, lights were off, the rink locked down. He looked up when he reached the threshold. His gaze caught on me like it always did—brief, sharp, quick to move on. He nodded once and passed, his boots squeaking on damp floor.
I thought that was it.
Then his steps stopped. The silence changed weight.
“You did good today,” he said without turning around.
The words hung there, almost invisible under how soft they were. Praise wasn’t his language. My stomach flipped before my brain caught up.
“Thanks.” I tried to sound casual, anyone-would-say-that casual, but it came out too hushed.
He turned halfway toward me, eyes darker than the dull corridor light. “Your shot’s still weak.”
The flicker of warmth inside me snapped shut. I straightened. “Wow, you’re great at compliments.”
The corner of his mouth didn’t lift, but something twitched there—a small, almost-smile or maybe just restraint. He stepped closer, into the fringe of light spilling from the locker room doorway.
“Your body positioning’s off,” he said. “You’re using your arms. You need to use your core.”
“That all?” I asked, forcing a smirk that felt thin.
He set the clipboard on a bench and mimed holding a stick. “When you pull back, your shoulders do the work. Watch—yourposture collapses before contact. You’re wasting power. You need everything driving through your center.”
His tone wasn’t condescending, just matter-of-fact. The coach version of him. The safe one.
