He stands, because apparently he’s said what he came to say. Squeezes past me into the aisle to go terrorize someone else.
“Shep.”
He looks back.
“If you say anything to anyone—”
“Relax.” He grins. “I’m the picture of discretion.”
He is absolutely not the picture of discretion.
I watch him drop into a seat three rows up and immediately start chirping Wolfe about the container. Normal. Easy. Like he didn’t just take a sledgehammer to something I was pretending was fine.
You’d rather have nothing than risk losing something.
I stare out the window at the highway blurring past and try very hard not to think about the way she kissed me back.
It doesn’t work.
The arena’s louder than it should be, or maybe it’s just me.
Lights, crowd, the sharp bite of cold air when I step onto the ice—it all hits at once, familiar and off at the same time, like something’s been dialed slightly out of tune. I tap my stick twice, skate a slow circle, try to settle into it.
Routine. That’s the point of it. Same warm-up. Same patterns. Same reads. Muscle memory takes over and everything else fades out.
That’s how it’s supposed to work.
I pretend I don’t know why it isn’t working tonight.
When the puck drops, I win the faceoff clean, slide it back to Holden, and pivot into position. The play moves up ice with a quick transition. Bodies shift, and lanes open and close in a rhythm I’ve known since I was a kid.
I should be ahead of it.
I’m not.
A pass comes across the slot—I reach, miss it by inches. Their winger snags it, snaps a shot on net. Gage smothers it with a glove save that he absolutely should not have had to make because I should have had that pass.
“Foster!” Coach Duff’s voice from the bench, sharp enough to cut glass.
“I’ve got it,” I call back.
I don’t have it.
Next shift, I overcorrect. Push harder, skate faster, close gaps that don’t need closing. I drive a guy into the boards harder than necessary, feel the hit echo up my arm as the crowd reacts.
The puck cycles back to me off a turnover. I pick it up at the blue line, head up, scanning—
Her hands in my shirt. The way she breathed in when I pulled her closer.
I hesitate.
One second. Half a second. The gap between the play I should make and the one I actually make.
Their defenseman reads it, steps into the passing lane, picks it off clean.
“Foster!” Coach again, louder.
“I know,” I mutter, chasing the play.
