“I did not lose,” Connor calls suddenly from the ice.
I nearly jump.
Down below, Connor skates backward near center ice, pointing accusingly toward the stands.
“You absolutely lost,” Allie yells back.
Connor gasps dramatically before placing a hand over his heart and skating away.
I stare after him. “This team is unwell.”
“That’s actually the nicest description anyone’s ever given them,” Harper says.
A laugh slips out of me before I can stop it.
Movement near the net catches my attention.
Daltyn.
My breath snags.
He glides backward through the crease in full practice gear, his mask briefly pushed up as he talks to another player.
Massive. Focused. Intimidating.
There’s something different about him on the ice. Somethingsharper.
The easy warmth from earlier disappears beneath cool concentration as he adjusts his blocker glove and taps the ice with his stick.
The arena lights gleam off the navy and white Avalanche colors stretched across his broad shoulders.
I suddenly understand why people lose their minds over hockey players.
“He gets scary goalie-focused before games,” Harper says casually beside me.
I tear my eyes away from Daltyn. “Scary?”
Allie snorts. “Connor says he turns into a feral cryptid.”
“I heard that!” Connor shouts again from the ice.
“How do you keep hearing us?” I yell.
He grins. “Supersonic hearing.”
“Unfortunately, he never shuts up,” Harper replies.
“I heard that, too,” Connor yells.
I laugh again before my gaze drifts back toward the net. Right as Daltyn looks up. Our eyes lock and hold.
Even across the ice, the shift in him is immediate. His shoulders loosen slightly, and I see the smile on his face beneath his mask.
Something warm flickers low in my stomach.
He was looking for me. Not the crowd.Me.
The realization hits hard enough to make my pulse stumble.
