But all I could see were his hands on my hips and the sound of the puck hitting home—solid, perfect, undeniable.
Chapter 16
Calder
The rink had gone still except for the hum of the compressors running under the ice. That low, constant vibration kept the place breathing. I leaned against the boards, gloves in one hand, stick hanging off the other, watching the reflection of the lights fade in the glass. The girls had cleared out an hour ago, their laughter echoing down the tunnel until it vanished.
I ran the day through my head—not the plays, just the rhythm. The patterns of grit and instinct you could only feel. They’d skated harder. Passed cleaner. Billie had been the pulse of it, no question. That first shift where she carried the puck through three defenders and still made the pass—that kind of confidence didn’t grow overnight. Except somehow it had. Her shot had bite now, not just speed. Got under the goalie’s glove twice during drills.
I wanted to call it progress, coaching, whatever made it sound clean. But the truth tasted like pride, warm and stupid in my chest. Too strong, too personal.
I slammed the pucks back into the bucket to shake it off. The clang of rubber on metal snapped through the emptiness.
Locker room still smelled like sweat and disinfectant. I went bench to bench, checking for stray gear before maintenance rolled through. Half-taped sticks. A missing shin guard. Someone’s scarf.
Then, near the bottom of the last row, I spotted it—a laminated card wedged under a pile of towels, corner torn, the photo side slick with condensation. Billie Donovan. Crestwood Student ID.
The picture caught her mid-blink, eyes too wide, a line of mascara smudged under one of them. Looked nothing like the way she played.
I turned the card over before I could talk myself out of it. Her dorm name, room number, even the campus map logo printed in small letters. Everything neat and official. Belonging to a kid working her ass off to belong on a different ice.
I told myself to toss it in lost and found, walk away, keep it simple. But my hand stayed closed around it instead.
Outside, the parking lot lights cut harsh cones through the dark. My truck sat half-frozen under a layer of road salt, the windshield fogged from the inside. The sensible move was to drop the ID on Paige’s desk in the morning. She’d log it, text the student, easy as that.
Instead, I opened the driver’s door and tossed the card onto the dash like it had pulled me there.
“Just doing my job,” I muttered.
The seatbelt clicked. Engine caught, rough at first, then steady. I pulled out slow, the wheels crunching through packed snow.
The plastic card slid across the dash at the first turn and landed near the gauge cluster. I glanced down. The black-and-white of her name shone under the dash light.
Returning something she needed. That was it.
Then why the hell was my chest tight like I’d just taken a hit? Why did the road ahead feel longer than it should?
I cranked the heat and kept driving toward campus; the ID catching the faint glow from the dash, her name glowing like it had weight.
The hallway smelledlike detergent and hot dust from overworked radiators. I could hear laughter bleeding through a door down the hall, muffled pop music under it. Hers was quiet. Only a soft hum, maybe a fan or the low buzz of her laptop. I knocked once.
The door opened halfway, and there she was—bare legs, sleep shorts, hoodie two sizes too big, throat marked with the line of a drawstring. Hair knotted up. She looked more like a kid than a player for half a breath—until her eyes cut up to mine, sharp and clear.
“You forgot this.” I held out the ID like it might scorch me.
She blinked at it, then at me. “You walked across campus to deliver that?”
“Didn’t want you getting locked out.” I kept my tone even, but it came out rougher than planned.
Her mouth twitched, half amusement, half confusion. One hand tightened on the doorframe. “You could’ve just given it to me at practice.”
“Yeah,” I said.
The silence stretched. She pressed her bottom lip between her teeth, studying me, maybe trying to figure out what game I was playing. The truth was, I didn’t have one. I just hadn’t wanted someone else holding a piece of her name.
“You want to come in for a second?”
A bad idea dressed as a polite offer. I hesitated, but my shoes stayed planted when they should’ve turned. She stepped back to make room, so I followed.
