The whistle blew, and everyone broke for water.
I stood there too long.
Roman skated over, mask pushed up now. “Bench.”
“I’m getting water.”
“No. Bench.”
“I don’t take orders from goalies.”
“Today you might want to.”
I looked past him, toward Declan. Mistake.
Declan was speaking to Benny by the boards, posture composed, shoulders square, expression focused. Normal. Completely normal. Only his eyes cut to me for half a second when Roman stepped into my space.
Not possessive. Not dramatic.
Aware.
My stomach dropped and tightened at the same time.
Roman followed my line of sight, then looked back at me. “Okay.”
“What?”
“Bench. Now.”
The low warning in his voice hit harder because Roman didn’t waste energy on dramatics. He saved that for divorces and shootouts.
I followed him because arguing would draw attention, and I had already used up all my normal for the day.
At the bench, he grabbed a towel and shoved it against my chest. “Wipe your face.”
“I’m sweating. That’s usually allowed during practice.”
“You’re pale.”
“I’m not pale.”
“You are, and your hands are doing that thing.”
I looked down. My fingers were opening and closing around my stick tape, over and over, tugging at the edge until it frayed.
I stopped. Immediately started bouncing one skate instead.
Roman sighed through his nose. “Something happened.”
“No.”
“That was too fast.”
“Nothing happened.”
“Jace.”
The way he said my name made my nerves spark. Too gentle. Too knowing. Too close to the truth without having any of the facts.
