The whistle blows, and I shake it off and push off hard, my blades carving into the ice.
“Left,” Ryan’s voice echoes behind me.
I pivot, catch the pass, and flick it across the slot without thinking. One of the rookies steps up late, all stiff and panicked, and I fake right, cut left, blow past him with that perfect rush through my legs that reminds me why I do this, why all the 6 a.m. practices and shitty bus rides and disgusting communal showers are worth it.
There’s nothing like this feeling. It’s the closest thing to flying I’ll ever get.
“Austin!” I call, spotting him crashing the crease.
He’s too deep—of fucking course he is—but Austin being Austin somehow gets his stick on it anyway, tipping the puck toward the far post. It bounces off Nathan’s pad and drops right back in front of him, and before anyone can even react, Austin slams it home, the puck sliding cleanly into the back of the net.
The sound cracks through the rink, but Austin doesn’t celebrate this time, probably still traumatized from Coach making us redo an entire drill earlier.
I catch the shit-eating grin anyway, right before my eyes go back to the crease.
Nathan adjusts his stance. His hand goes to the ice for balance as he stretches out that left thigh.
Coach blows the final whistle, a blessed sound of freedom, and I let out a breath, tipping my head back and attempting to catch my breath.
“Calling it now,” Austin yells, spinning a few circles before coasting toward the bench. “Tonight I’m getting the game-winning goal, baby.” He pounds a fist against his chest. “I feel it.”
Ryan rolls his eyes. “You ‘felt it’ last week and missed the net by four feet.”
“It was three,” Austin fires back. “And I was aiming for the boards.”
“Sure you were,” Ryan says dryly.
Austin shakes his head, still circling the ice. “Bunch of haters. All of you.” He scoffs. “Manifestation, boys. Watch and fucking eat your words.”
He finally steps off the ice, and the rest of the guys trail behind him. Ryan pulls off his helmet, shaking out his hair, and the second he reaches Isabella he softens. Coach hates when he has to witness it, so Ryan keeps it PG, brushing her curls from her face and pressing a quick kiss to her forehead before ducking into the locker room.
I coast toward the boards, pretending to stretch even though I’m not fooling anyone, least of all me, because my eyes keep drifting back to Nathan. He’s bent slightly at the waist, readjusting the straps on his pads.
It’s none of my fucking business. I know that. The last time I tried to step in and help, everything blew up in my face andturned the air between us into something weird and taut and impossible to ignore.
But try telling my brain that.
It won’t shut the hell up.
I let out a low groan and push off toward the bench, my blades scraping loud through the half-empty rink now that everyone else has cleared out. Their voices fade down the tunnel, leaving just us out here.
I grab my water bottle and take a long drink, letting the cold hit my throat. Before I can talk myself out of it, I’m skating toward him again, because apparently I just love to torture myself.
“Thigh still bugging you?” I ask, aiming for something that sounds like I haven’t spent the past hour tracking every tiny shift in his stance.
He doesn’t look at me. He just rolls one shoulder like I’m background noise. “It’s fine.”
“You’re still babying that leg,” I say, because subtlety has never been my strong point. “You should ice it before the game.”
He finally lifts his head and pins me with a look cold enough to skate on. “I said I’m good. I don’t need your help.”
And there he goes, putting up a wall again. The same one he threw up after what happened in the locker room. One second, we’re teammates, and the next he shuts me out like nothing happened.
Fuck, I feel stupid for even opening my mouth.
I swallow, try to shake it off, and force a grin. “Relax, Hayes,” I say with a teasing tone. “I’m not gonna touch you again.”
His eyes flash under his sweat-plastered hair. Oh boy. He wasnota fan of my joke.