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I force myself to look at him again. My voice comes out quieter this time. “And if I get jealous again?”

“Then I’ll remind you I chose you. Again.”

We’re running drills, the usual chaos of skates cutting across the ice and Damian’s voice barking corrections from the bench. I should be locked in. Game 2 is tomorrow and Vanguard is the kind of team that will punish you the second you let your focus slip.

But every time I glance toward the glass, my brain short-circuits.

Santi’s out there again, camera in his hands as usual. He’s moving along the boards, crouched low to get a better angle on one of the rushes. I watch his fingers adjust the lens, the flex of his wrists when he lifts the camera again, and suddenly all I can think about is what those hands could teach me.

Not in a hockey way.

My stick feels heavier than usual. I miss a pass I should’ve picked up clean and have to chase it down the boards, annoyed with myself for losing focus.

“Rivera! Did you hear me?” Jace’s voice cuts through my thoughts and I jerk my head toward him so fast I almost lose an edge.

“What?”

Jace is standing a few feet away, eyebrows raised and a shit-eating grin already spreading across his face. He skates a slow circle around me, conducting what appears to be a full damage assessment.

“Man… you have it bad,” he says, laughing under his breath. “I was asking if you can show me that move again. The one you did in the third period yesterday. How you stripped the puck off their center.”

I blink at him, still half-stuck on the image of Santi’s hands wrapped around something that isn’t a camera.

“Yeah… sure,” I mutter, trying to sound normal. “What move?”

Jace’s grin gets even wider. He stops circling and leans on his stick, looking way too pleased with himself.

“Oh my god,” he says, delighted. “You’re actually gone. Completely fucking gone. I thought Cole was bad when he first got with Viktor, but you’re on another level right now. Should I be worried you’re gonna start writing Santi’s name on your tape or something?”

I flip him off without any real heat, ears burning under my helmet. “Shut up and skate, Moreno.”

Jace laughs and taps my shin with his stick before skating off, wearing the smug satisfaction of someone who just uncovered state secrets.

I shake my head and try to refocus, but my eyes drift back toward the glass anyway.

After practice, I stand outside Santi’s apartment door with takeout bags in both hands, staring at the wood and feeling increasingly ridiculous the longer I hesitate.

My heart is beating way too hard for someone who just came from practice. I shift my weight from one foot to the other, muttering under my breath while I try to talk myself into knocking.

“Alright, Rivera. You can do this. You’re not a little bitch. Just knock. It’s food. And… other stuff. Just knock.”

I take one more deep breath, then raise my fist and knock before I can talk myself out of it.

The door opens a few seconds later.

Santi’s standing there in a black T-shirt and sweats, his hair still slightly damp and messy from a recent shower. That slow, knowing smile spreads across his face the second he sees me, carrying absolutely no surprise at finding me on his doorstep.

Before I can overthink it, the words fall out of my mouth.

“Teach me.”

Santi’s smile widens, slow and warm and a little dangerous. Without saying anything, he reaches out, hooks two fingers into my belt, and pulls me inside. The door clicks shut behind me.

“Lesson one,” he says as he takes the takeout bags from my hands. “You don’t impress me by performing. You impress me by listening.”

I swallow, suddenly very aware of the space between us and the lingering warmth where his fingers brushed my stomach when he grabbed my belt.

My ears are burning again.