7
Chapter 7
MATEO
The Wolves have a reputation and they show it off inside the first shift.
Physical doesn’t cover it - they hit everything that moves, they hit things that aren’t moving, and by the end of the first period Barrett has taken two penalties and Mercer is skating with the controlled fury of a man who has been hit one too many times and is doing the math on what he can get away with.
It’s exactly the kind of game I’ve always responded to with force. Meet them where they are, hit back harder, grind it out until someone breaks.
Except.
I’m in the corner, fighting for position, and instead of muscling through it I drop my weight the way she showed me and I come out with the puck.
Small. Barely anything.
But I feel it.
I look up as I cross the blue line and she’s there behind the glass, front row. She’s watching the play develop, not me specifically, and then she is watching me specifically and our eyes meet for half a second. She gives me a small nod.
I look back at the ice and make the pass and it connects and I’m back in position before I’ve finished processing it. I find myself showing off a little.
I’m aware of it and still I do it anyway. I put a shot on net that doesn’t go in but should have, and when I pull up at the boards I don’t look at her.
I want to look at her. But I don’t.
We score twice in the second. Once in the third. The Wolves pull one back and spend the last four minutes making life extremely unpleasant for everyone, but we hold it, and when the buzzer goes it’s 3-1.
I stand at center ice for a second.
3-1.
Same scoreline as the loss, same numbers, but a completely different universe.
ELIDA
They win 3-1. The difference from the last game I watched is stark.
It wasn’t perfect. It was scrappy and physical and there were passages of play that made me want to write three pages of notes. But underneath all of it, threading through the whole game in moments I could pick out like finding one single instrument in an orchestra - the skating was better.
Measurably better, in exactly the ways we’ve been working on, and more than once I watched Russo make a movement that I recognized from the private session.
He looks up once from the ice briefly, and finds me through the glass, and I give him a nod because it’s deserved.
The fact that he’s been magnetic to watch for the past sixty minutes is entirely beside the point.
The team celebrates on the ice and I start gathering my things, thinking about notes, thinking about the women’s session tomorrow, thinking about anything except the fact that I’m smiling.
I’m starting to leave when I hear my name.
Russo is coming off the ice, helmet under his arm, hair damp, and he’s grinning, which I haven’t seen before, not like this, not so unguarded, and it changes his face in a way that I was not prepared for.
He reaches me in a few strides and before I’ve processed that he’s moving that fast he’s pulled me into a hug - it’s steadying and solid.
“Drinks,” he says, still grinning, slightly breathless. “The whole team. You’re coming.”
“I-” I look past him, instinctively, and Calloway is there at the boards, jacket on. “You should go,” he says, mildly. “I’ll swing by for one myself.”
