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The tunnel doors opened and the team poured onto the ice in a wave of purple jerseys.

Wearing his full gear, Brashe skated toward the net. The crowd’s noise made my ribs vibrate. He did a lap, testing his edges, warming up the hip I’d spent considerable time rehabilitating. I gripped my hot chocolate cup so hard the cardboard buckled.

He was going to look up. I could feel it coming like static electricity before a storm.

His gaze swept toward the family section and landed on me immediately as if he’d known exactly where to look.

I didn’t move. Every thought in my head had been replaced with the awareness that he was looking at me.

I made myself lift my hand. A small wave, almost shy, because what else could I do?

He couldn’t wave back—goalie mask, gloves, stick—but he nodded once.

My breath stuttered out of rhythm, and my stomach did a weird flip-swoop thing.

“Did you see that?” Simone nudged me, grinning. “He found you first.”

Haley leaned in from my other side. “Before he even settled in at the goal.”

“That’s a male who knows what matters,” Trina said, her voice carrying a knowing tone.

I couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. I could only watch as warm-ups continued, and he moved through the drills easily, then took practice shots from the team. He stopped everything, looking sharp and confident and exactly like the brutal goalie everyone talked about. His hip seemed solid. I didn’t see any hesitation in his movements.

But I noticed him glancing up between saves, finding me in the stands.

Every time he did, my skin went hot, then cold. Like standing too close to a bonfire and then stepping back into winter air. I didn’t know if I wanted him to keep looking or to forget I was here.

The puck dropped.

My fingers found the hoodie ties, twisting them. Around me, the women settled into their seats as if they’d done this a hundred times. They knew when to cheer, when to hold their breath, and when to yell at the refs.

I didn’t know any of that. I only knew how to watch him.

The first shot came fast from a Crusher forward breaking away on the left side. Brashe moved into position, his angles perfect, his weight distributed exactly how we’d practiced. The puck hit his glove with a solid thwack that I felt in my chest.

“Nice save,” Trina called out.

I exhaled, realizing I’d been holding my breath.

The second shot came four minutes later, a slap shot from the point, high glove side. He moved but something was wrong. His angle was off by a few inches. Not enough that anyone else would notice, but I’d spent a lot of time with my hands on that hip, learning every centimeter of his movement patterns.

The puck sailed past him. He’d overcompensated.

“Did you see that?” I asked Haley, leaning forward.

“The miss? Yeah, but it went wide anyway.”

“No, his positioning.”

“He’s favoring the hip.”

Except he wasn’t. I’d seen enough compensatory movement to know what it looked like, and this wasn’t it. His hip was solid. The rehab had worked.

This was something else.

Between plays, he turned toward our section before focusing again on the ice.

My stomach dropped.