“Move.”
Connor skates by laughing. “There he is. Murder goalie’s back.”
Cole points his stick at me. “He remembered hockey exists.”
“Shut up and skate,” I mutter.
Honestly?
The chirping helps. Because it’s familiar. Predictable.
Unlike the complete psychological warfare my life has become lately.
Coach blows the whistle. “Again.”
The next drill comes faster. Harder. Bodies flying through the neutral zone. Skates cutting across fresh ice. Sticks clashing. Controlled chaos.
This time, I lock in.
No distraction. No spiraling. Just instinct.
Connor comes down low.
I read it.
Jake tries screening.
I shove him out of the way.
Easton fires high glove side.
I snag it cleanly out of the air.
The rink goes quiet for half a second before Coach nods once. “Better.”
That single word hits something ugly and relieved inside my chest. Because hockey has always been the one thing I could control.
And for a few terrifying minutes earlier?
I wasn’t controlling a damn thing.
Coach finally blows the whistle long and sharp. “That’s it. Hit the showers.”
The team starts chirping at each other again while everyone skates toward the bench.
Connor skates backward in front of me. “So,” he says casually. “Excited to go home to your fake girlfriend?”
I slam my shoulder into him as I pass.
He nearly wipes out laughing. “ABUSIVE!” he yells.
“You deserve worse.”
Jake tosses me a water bottle near the bench. “You gonna bring Peyton to media day?”
My jaw tightens automatically. “No.”
Connor gasps dramatically. “You’re hiding her from the world?”
