The sketch still hung on the wall across from the couch. Beau, rendered in confident lines, looking exactly like himself. She’d seen him clearly enough to capture something true, and she’d handed it to me like it was nothing.
Tal’haig.Being seen.
Only fated mates did something like this.
I’d known what it meant the second she’d given it to me, even if she hadn’t. Its meaning had carved itself into my chest where it would live for a lifetime.
And I was going to lose her, because this couldn’t last. Eventually Jim would find out, or the team would make it impossible to hide, or the season would grind us down until there was nothing left but the exhaustion of pretending.
I still wanted her badly enough that staying put felt like something breaking.
Beau jumped onto the couch, raking his back legs across the cushion before settling into his spot. He looked at me with his tiny, earnest face, waiting for me to join him.
When I sat, he immediately climbed into my lap, rolling to expose his belly for rubs.
I sat in the dark with my brother’s dog and stared at the sketch on the wall until exhaustion finally pulled me under.
When I woke up three hours later, still on the couch, Beau asleep on my chest, my phone was in my hand.
I’d typed out a message,Are you awake?
I hadn’t sent it.
Now I deleted it.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
HALEY
The press box was cold, the air conditioning working overtime to combat the heat rising from the audience below. I’d pulled on my hoodie and zipped it up to my chin.
Tuesday night and the guys were warming up for an exhibition game. A home game, as was the final one tomorrow night. Regular season started in a week.
My tablet sat in front of me, connected to the live feed. Three monitors displayed different angles of the ice. The tagging software ran in the background, logging sequences in real time. This was my workspace, the corner of the press box I’d claimed as mine when I joined this team.
Nothing about this should feel different, yet everything was.
The puck dropped and play started, Crim taking the opening faceoff. Our forwards pushed into the offensive zone while I tracked the entry pattern and logged it.
Then Tolrek’s line took the ice.
My fingers paused on the keyboard before I forced them to keep moving. Tag the sequence. Log the deployment. Watch the full ice, not just one player.
The opposing team’s forward drove toward our zone, cutting through the neutral area with confidence. He’d identified a gap in our coverage. A dangerous play was developing in real time.
Tolrek didn't just read it, he'd already moved before the forward committed. He adjusted his position, putting himself exactly where he needed to be to cut off the passing option and force the play wide.
The forward tried to go through him anyway. Tolrek absorbed the hit and stripped the puck in one motion, sending it up ice to our winger who received it cleanly and skated into their zone.
The crowd roared.
That read had come directly from our tape session. I’d shown him footage of himself doing exactly this, three seasons ago.
He’d done it perfectly now.
Because of me.
I’d given him something, and he'd used it. That shouldn't feel like anything. It felt like everything.
