Across the rink, Calder turned and walked toward the tunnel.
But not before I saw it.
The smallest curve of his mouth.
Pride.
The locker roomemptied in waves. First the defenders, then Kira still buzzing about the win, then Reese with a backward glance and a raised eyebrow.
"You coming?"
"Yeah. Just need a minute."
She hesitated, then nodded. The door swung shut behind her.
I sat on the bench, still in my gear. Shoulder pads cutting into my collarbones. Skates heavy on my feet. The three pucks lined up beside me like sentries.
Three goals. Mine.
The door opened.
I looked up, expecting Reese back with some forgotten water bottle or chirping comment.
It wasn't Reese.
Nate stood in the doorway. Suit jacket slung over one shoulder. That smile plastered across his face — the one that used to make my stomach flip and now just made it turn.
"Congrats, B. Looked hot out there."
He stepped inside. Locked the door behind him.
The click echoed through the empty room like a gunshot.
Every muscle in my body went rigid.
"What are you doing?" My voice came out flat. Controlled.
He crossed toward me. Slow. Confident. Like he had every right to be here. In this space. In my space. "Celebrating with you." His hand found my waist. Fingers pressing through the fabric of my undershirt. "You were incredible tonight. Really. Made me remember why I liked watching you play."
I stood. Put distance between us. "Nate?—"
"Come on." He followed. Closed the gap again. His hands were familiar. The weight of them. The way they assumed permission. "We should celebrate properly. I can make you feel like you did back then."
Back when I thought his attention meant something.
Back when I mistook control for love.
I stepped back harder this time. Shoved his hands away. "No. I said I'd pretend in front of people. That doesn't include this."
His smile faltered. Just for a second. Then it came back sharper. "Oh, come on. It's me."
"Exactly."
His jaw tightened. He reached for my wrist — fingers wrapping tight, pulling me toward him. His mouth aimed for mine like this was choreographed. Expected.
I shoved him. Hard. Both palms flat against his chest.
He stumbled back into the lockers with a metallic clang.
