Will’s expression shifts to something more thoughtful. He glances back at the ice, and I make the mistake of following his gaze.
The practice is in full swing. Players move across the ice in coordinated chaos, and even I, who knows almost nothing about hockey, can see the precision in their movements. The skill.
And then there’s Devlin Bower.
He’s impossible to miss. Six-foot-four, built like someone designed a human specifically for violence, moving across the ice with a grace that seems physically impossible for someone his size.
Even from here, I can feel the intensity of his focus.
I look away immediately, my heart doing something uncomfortable in my chest.
“That’s a cool idea,” Will says, and I force my attention back to him. “What kind of events?”
I explain about the Spring Carnival booth, the charity auction, the volunteer opportunities. Will listens, nodding along, but I can see the hesitation creeping into his expression.
“So,” I finish, trying to sound confident, “I was hoping you might talk to the team? See who’d be interested?”
Will shifts his weight, his skates scraping slightly on the ice. “The whole team? I mean… probably not everyone, but some of the guys would definitely be up for it.”
Something in my chest tightens. “But not everyone.”
“Look, Val—”
And that’s when frustration overwhelms my usual caution. Maybe it’s Monica’s passive-aggressive radio show. Maybe it’s the constant stress of trying to keep the rescue center running.
Or it’s the exhaustion of always being the person who has to ask for help, who has to justify why saving abandoned animals matters.
Or maybe it’s the weight of those dark eyes that I can feel watching me from across the ice, judging me, and finding me lacking as always.
“But someone like Devlin Bower wouldn’t agree, right?” The words tumble out before I can stop them. “And he’ll influence the whole team?”
Will’s eyes go wide. Beside him, Spencer develops a sudden, intense fascination with his stick tape. The temperature in the room plunges twenty degrees.
“Val,” Luke hisses, but it’s too late.
“Luke, you’re late for class. You can stop babysitting me now.”
I throw my arms around him, but to my surprise, he doesn’t argue. He actually starts to leave, though not before burning a long, unreadable look into me.
And then there’s a sound like a small avalanche, and then Devlin Bower is right there, stopping so abruptly that ice sprays across the boards.
He yanks off his helmet, and his straight black hair falls across his face, damp and disheveled.
His eyes meet mine.
They’re so dark they’re almost black, framed by thick eyebrows currently drawn together in what might be confusion or anger.
His jaw is set, his mouth pressed into a hard line.
Everything about him looks lethal.
My stomach does something that feels like falling.
“Something you want to say to me directly, Wylie?” His voice is low, rough. “Instead of gossiping with my teammates?”
I really should apologize. I should laugh it off.
Shit, to be honest, I should do literallyanythingexcept stand here staring at him like a deer caught in headlights.
