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I don’t want to think it. I really don’t. But once the thought is there, it’s impossible to shake.

I’m still playing well. Maybe even better than the first period. My legs feel fast, my reads are sharp, but every time I come off a shift, my attention drifts back toward the glass before I can stop it.

And somehow, the camera always seems to find exactly what bothers me most.

The second period ends and I barely register the horn.

I’m skating toward the bench when someone slaps my back hard enough to jolt me. I glance up at the scoreboard and have to process the numbers for a second.

2–0.

We scored again. I have no idea who or when. I give a quick nod, pretending I’ve been following along, and drop onto the bench before my attention snaps straight back toward the glass.

Santi has his camera up. Luca is dragging out the end of his shift, taking his sweet fucking time getting off the ice, and Santi’s lens tracks him again.

I don’t even hear what Damian’s saying in the short break between periods.

By the time we step back out for the third, my head is a fucking mess.

I play through it anyway. I have to. But every time I come off the ice, my eyes drag back to the same spot behind the glass.

And then Luca notices.

It happens on a rush. He’s carrying the puck up the boards, trying to cut inside, and I step up hard, slamming him into the glass before he can make the play. The boards rattle. My forearm’s across his chest, pinning him there while we battle for the puck along the boards.

Luca lets out a low laugh. “Your photographer has good taste,” he says, smooth French-Canadian accent curling around the words like he’s enjoying this way too much. He tilts his head toward the glass.

We both look at the same time.

Santi’s camera is pointed straight at us.

For a second, everything freezes. Santi’s looking through the viewfinder, then he frowns slightly at the screen. He lowers the camera just enough to see us clearly, eyes flicking between me and Luca. His eyebrow lifts, questioning, like he can read every pissed-off, insecure thought currently screaming in my head.

Luca smirks against the glass.

“Keep his name out of your fucking mouth,” I growl. I dig my shoulder in harder, using every bit of strength I have to rip the puck free from his stick. It comes loose with a sharp scrape and I send it flying up the ice toward Nico without even looking.

Nico buries it.

The lamp lights up. 3-0.

I shove off Luca and skate backward, wearing a smirk that hopefully hides how close I just came to losing my mind. I flip him off with both hands as I go, just to make sure he gets the message.

He laughs, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of looking back.

I head toward the bench, and the second I sit down, everything comes crashing back in. The smirk disappears the moment my ass hits the seat.

I’m wondering if maybe Luca’s right. If maybe Santi does have good taste—and maybe that taste doesn’t include someone who’s still figuring out how the fuck to be with a man without second-guessing every move he makes.

I clench my jaw until it hurts and stare at the ice with enough resentment to blame the entire rink for my problems. We’re up by three, and I’ve never felt more off-balance in my life.

We win 3–1, but I don’t feel it.

I go through the motions—the handshake line, the helmet taps, the loud celebration in the locker room—but none of it lands. I smile when I’m supposed to. I answer questions from the media without remembering what I said two seconds later. I don’t even remember showering. One minute I’m in my gear, the next I’m in jeans and a hoodie, walking out to the parking garage on pure autopilot.

I get in the car, shut the door, and sit there. Engine off. Hands resting on the steering wheel. Staring at nothing through the windshield while the garage lights buzz overhead.

I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting there when a knock on the driver’s side window makes me jump so hard my foot slams onto the brake pedal.