“Fair.”
I turn to my tablet, pulling up his maintenance protocol, aware of him behind me. The air feels charged, heavy with everything we’re not saying.
“So,” he says finally. “Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow.”
“You’ll be there? In the medical booth?”
“Where else would I be?”
“Just checking.” He’s quiet for a moment. “Marnie, about?—”
“Don’t.” I don’t turn around. “Not here. Not now.”
“When?”
“I don’t know.”
I hear him stand, the rustle of fabric as he pulls his shirt back on. Feel him move closer, stop just behind me. Close enough that I can feel his warmth but not close enough to touch.
“Okay,” he says quietly. “But we are going to talk about this.”
“I know.”
He leaves without another word.
I stand there staring at my tablet until the screen goes dark, trying to remember why professional boundaries matter when all I want is to chase him down the hallway and finish what we started.
My phone buzzes.
Mom
Blood work today. Teresa says you should come by after work.
Right. Because Roman’s not the only thing I need to think about.
October 25th
The arena buzzes with an energy that’s been missing—their captain’s back.
I’m in the medical booth overlooking the ice, running through my pre-game checklist. Jake’s handling warm-ups while I coordinate with the training staff, but my eyes keep finding number seventy-nine on the ice.
Roman moves like he never left. Maybe better. His skating’s smooth, powerful, edges sharp on every turn. He takes a few practice shots, and I hold my breath with every rotation of his shoulder.
“He looks good,” Jake says, climbing into the booth. “Really good.”
“He’s ready.”
“You look like you’re going to throw up.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’ve said that like six times today. It’s not getting more convincing.”
The arena lights dim. The crowd roars.
I grip the edge of the bench as the announcer’s voice booms through the speakers, calling the starting lineup.
