It didn’t work.
The first real shot came out of nowhere—quick, sharp, the kind meant to catch someone off guard. Taranis didn’t flinch. His hand lifted, calm and precise, and the puck vanished into his glove like it had always been meant to end up there.
I leaned forward without realizing I’d moved, my tablet slipping forgotten against my leg.
Another rush followed almost immediately. Two attackers barreled down on him, one pulling his attention to the side while the other slid into open space. For a heartbeat, the net looked exposed.
Taranis moved.
One blink he was upright. The next he was across the ice, blocking the shot with his body, the puck ricocheting away harmlessly. The crowd groaned in frustration. Our bench exploded.
Someone near me muttered, “That’s Hall of Fame material.”
I didn’t answer. Because I didn’t know enough about hockey.
What I had was a quiet, growing list of things I kept buried deep in my head—some in my phone to protect me—numbers and notes that didn’t line up with human limits. Body temperatures that hovered too low. The way cold gathered around him when he was under pressure, subtle but undeniable, like the air itself responded to his mood. It wasn't just hishockey. Since I'd become interested, I'd watched other games—goalies—and yes, Taz was good, but not creepily so.
But watching him now felt less like watching an athlete and more like watching something elemental at work. As if the ice recognized him. As if nothing crossed that line without his permission.
By the end of the first period, the score was still tied, but it didn’t feel even. They’d thrown everything they had at him. Shot after shot. Chance after chance.
Nothing got through.
When he skated back to the bench, I was already on my feet with water and a towel, carefully positioning myself close enough to do my job without hovering. His breathing was steady—too steady. His eyes were clear, that familiar gray-blue I’d come to think of as his baseline.
Not the bright, impossible blue I’d glimpsed once when his control slipped. Not the pale gray that came with dangerous drops in temperature.
Just… him.
“How are you feeling?” I asked, keeping my voice even. Professional. Safe.
“Good,” he said, glancing at me. His eyes softened in that way they only ever did for me. “Really good.”
I took his wrist, checking his pulse. Slow. Strong. His skin was cool, but not alarmingly so. Beneath it, that strange sensation I’d never found the right word for—like standing near something vast and quiet and powerful.
“Temperature?” he asked softly.
“Cool, but stable.” I let my fingers linger just a moment longer than necessary. “Whatever you’re doing out there… keep doing it.”
His mouth twitched. “That doesn’t sound very medical.”
“Consider it… flexible advice.”
He almost smiled. A real one. Then the coaches called them back, and he pulled his mask on and skated away with that unhurried confidence that made it look like the ice belonged to him.
The second period shifted in our favor. Cole had a breakaway and scored in a flash of speed that sent our side of the arena into chaos. Suddenly we were ahead, and Taranis stood behind us like a locked door.
L.A. pushed harder.
They crowded him. Tried to block his view. Fired shots through bodies and chaos and noise. I found myself gripping the edge of my seat, heart thudding as wave after wave crashed toward him.
He stopped everything.
One moment silenced the entire building. Their captain lined up a shot with nothing in his way—no screen, no interference. Just raw power and precision.
The puck flew.
Taranis lifted his glove.