Still, my pulse wouldn’t settle. Maybe it was the way his focus sharpened when he demonstrated, eyes locked on the air between us as if the invisible puck meant survival. Maybe it was how his sleeves strained when he drew the motion again, slow this time, deliberate.
I rolled my shoulders, copying him without thinking. The move felt mechanical, unnatural under his inspection.
“Better,” he muttered. No smile. No nod. Just one word that somehow landed heavier than any compliment I’d ever been given.
“Grab your skates,” he said.
No hesitation. Just command.
I blinked, halfway to hanging my gear to dry. “Now?”
His eyes lifted, unreadable. “You want to fix that shot, don’t you? Gloves too.”
The challenge in his voice made it sound less like an order and more like a dare. The air between us shifted again—thicker now, humming. I shoved my foot back into my skate, tightened laces with sharp jerks, grabbed my gloves, and followed him out onto the quiet rink.
The place looked bigger without the team on it. Empty bleachers, boards still damp from the Zamboni. Our reflections moved across the ice like we were the only two people alive. He didn’t say another word as he dropped a stick across the faceoff dot and bent to collect a handful of pucks from a bucket near the bench. The sound of them hitting the ice—sharp plastic on frozen glass—echoed through my chest.
“Set up there,” he called, pointing toward the high slot.
My blades scratched the ice as I glided into position. The fluorescent lights pulled a blue sheen from the ice. My breath came out white. He finished lining up the shots, stood behind the net, arms crossed like a statue at a battlefield he already owned.
“Go ahead.”
I pulled in a breath, set my stance, and fired. The puck skidded wide, bouncing off the boards with a hollow thud. Another shot—too high. Third—caught the post.
He didn’t flinch. “Again.”
I shot until sweat pooled under my neck guard. Every miss thudded through the air like it was keeping score. When I stopped, chest heaving, he dragged his skates slow against the ice and came toward me, whistling two notes under his breath.
“Not bad,” he said. “But you’re still muscling it. Shoulders tight. You’ll never get power that way.”
Before I could respond, he moved in close enough that his breath warmed the air near my cheek. “Hold still.”
He reached around and touched my hips—firm, steady. One hand pressing lightly forward, the other guiding my weight back. Professional. Absolutely professional. But my brain went static, sound dropping out until all I could hear was the buzz of the rink lights and the blood in my ears.
“That’s your center,” he said, voice rough, low, familiar in the way thunder is when it rolls too close to your house. “Right here. Stop fighting it. Let the stick do the work.”
My mouth went dry. “Okay.”
“Shift—here.” His thumb pressed into the muscle just above my waistband, correcting my balance. “Now try again.”
I pulled in a breath that scraped the back of my throat. Moved the stick the way he’d shown me—hips first, shoulders last. The puck left the blade with a sound I’d never made before—clean, biting, perfect. It slammed the back of the net so hard the twine jumped.
I laughed, half a gasp, turning. “Did you see that? That feltgood.”
He smiled. Actually smiled. Not his usual crooked smirk or tight-mouthed approval, but something real. Warm enough to thaw the space between us. It hit me harder than the shot.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “It did.”
For a heartbeat, everything stilled. His hands were still hovering near me, not quite touching now, but close enough that the heat from his palms felt like a second pulse. My chest filled, tight and light all at once.
That flicker of joy—pure and bright from nailing the shot—shifted into something else. Something that felt like standing too close to the edge of a frozen lake, where one step might crack the surface. His smile faded an inch, maybe realizing the same thing. His jaw flexed.
I cleared my throat, too loud in the vast quiet. “So… consistency. I should—uh—shoot again, right?”
He nodded, stepping back, mask snapping down over his expression. “Again.”
Another puck. Another slap of blade on ice. It hit the net clean, thunked against the boards behind. I grinned despite myself. The sound was addictive.
