“You’re doing it again,” Samuel says, drawing up beside me.
“Running the play?”
“Looking at her.”
“I’m looking at the boards.”
“How convenient that she’s standing in front of the boards.”
I turn to face him. “I have an itch to slam this hockey stick in someone’s face today. You want to volunteer?”
He raises both hands, grins, and skates away.
Coach blows the whistle for the last sequence, and I push off so hard the ice chips under my blades. The puck drops, and I’m on it immediately, burning hard up the left side, shoulder dropping as I take the hit from Brody and hold the line. I feed it back, loop behind the net, take the return pass, and snap it home before the defense resets.
It’s a good goal. Clean and fast.
I don’t look at the sideline afterward.
I will not look at the sideline.
I look at the sideline.
She’s watching me.
I look away, pleased.
By the time Coach blows the final whistle, I let the momentum carry me into the boards, breathing hard. My legsare burning in the good way, the way that means I pushed hard enough to matter. Around me, the team starts coming off the ice, sticks clattering, someone arguing already about a missed call from the scrimmage. The usual noise.
I pull off my helmet and tuck it under my arm. My pulse is still elevated, and I tell myself it’s from the skating.
I follow the team off the ice and into the corridor, skates loud on the rubber matting. The locker room fills up fast, showers running, steam drifting out, the usual post-practice noise rising. Twenty minutes pass. Brody is walking around with a towel slung around his waist looking for his phone. Samuel has just come out of the shower, water still dripping. Two of the boys are arguing over a celebrity they’ve never even met. When the door swings open, nobody notices.
Miranda walks in, and my head whips up.
She stops dead in the doorway.
Her eyes go wide, and a flush crawls up the back of her neck. Everybody is half-dressed. Then she clears her throat, lifts her clipboard, and looks at a point approximately six inches above everyone’s heads.
“I need to schedule blood draws,” she says, and her voice only wavers slightly on the first word before she gets it under control. “Ideally before your next session so results don’t get skewed by physical output. I’m thinking Wednesday morning, seven a.m., before warm-ups.”
“Sure, sweetheart,” Brody says immediately, and I can hear the grin in his voice without looking.
I cross the room in six strides, grab her by the elbow, and steer her straight back out the door.
“Hey!” She digs her heels in. “I’m in the middle of—”
“You’re in the middle of a locker room full of half-naked men,” I say, pushing the door open with my shoulder and pullingher through it into the corridor. “Which you would know if you’d knocked.”
She spins to face me the second we’re out, yanking her arm free. “I did knock. Nobody answered.”
“Then you wait.”
“I have a schedule, Grayson.”
“So do they. It’s called getting changed.” I pull the door shut behind me and lean back against it. “You can’t just walk in there.”
She stares at me. “I’m a nurse. I have seen more male bodies than everyone on that team combined. You really think a locker room full of hockey players is going to rattle me?”
