I groaned, but I watched.
When I finally left the arena, the sun was already dropping behind the mountains, and my phone was full of messages I hadn’t answered. Vanessa wanted to know if I’d confirmed tomorrow. Tessa had sent a reminder for a media hit. Dad had texted, Call when you can, no rush, which meant he would pretend not to be waiting.
Usually that would have sent my thoughts scattering in every direction.
Tonight, under all the noise, one thing stayed steady.
Puck. Pressure. Support. Exit.
Start with the puck.
I sat in my car and wrote it down in my notes app before I could lose it.
Then, because apparently I had become a person who made questionable choices in the name of self-improvement, I set alarms for tomorrow. Three of them. Fine, five. One labeled notebook. One labeled eat something. One labeled phone away before you walk in.
I stared at the last one for a while.
The irritating truth was I’d spent most of the day thinking about what Declan Reid said. Not his face. Not the tattoos Roman had joked made him look like a retired hitman. Not any of that.
His words.
Clear. Specific. Useful.
I started the car and pulled out of the parking lot, annoyed to discover that some part of me was already waiting for tomorrow morning.
Chapter 4
Chapter 4
DECLAN
By the third replay, the pattern stopped looking like coincidence.
I sat alone in my office with practice footage running on the wall monitor, coffee untouched beside my keyboard, and Jace Holloway frozen mid-stride on the screen. His left skate was angled wrong for the route we’d drawn up. His shoulders were already turned toward open ice. His head had moved before Lowell had full control of the puck.
I clicked back ten seconds.
The drill started again.
The first rep, I’d given the line a broad correction. Tighter support. Better timing. Holloway drifted high on the next attempt, hunting space that wasn’t available yet.
The second rep, I’d snapped too hard. Not yelling, but sharper than necessary. “Stop freelancing.” He pushed back immediately, mouth moving, shoulders set, eyes bright with irritation. The next attempt was fast but angry, technically correct and still useless because he was proving a point instead of reading the play.
The third rep, I’d changed it.
“Holloway. Start lower. Wait until Lowell’s second touch. Then go.”
Specific. Firm. Direct.
He locked in.
Not perfectly. He still wanted to leave early. I could see the fight in his body. But he stayed. Lowell made the pass, the timing opened, and the whole line moved clean through the neutral zone.
I backed it up again.
There were plenty of players who responded to clear instruction. That wasn’t unusual. Hockey at this level was full of men who had spent their lives being told where to be and when to move. Structure was part of the job.
This was different enough to hold my attention.
