Because in that exact moment, Grant turns.
And locks eyes with me again. A slow prickle of awareness rolls down my spine.
I expect him to smirk. To acknowledge me in some way. To let me know he knows I’m watching him.
But he doesn’t.
He just holds my gaze for a fraction of a second too long—long enough for something to spark low in my stomach, long enough for my breath to feel too shallow—then he looks away.
Like he wasn’t just looking at me the exact same way a few nights ago, with his hands tangled in my hair and his mouth against my throat.
A hot wave of something flares beneath my skin.
Oh, hell no.
This man.
This smug, controlled, infuriating man.
I shift in my seat, crossing one leg over the other, glaring at him like it’ll somehow affect him the way he’s affecting me.
It doesn’t.
He goes back to coaching, ignoring me completely.
Like he’s not even aware I’m here.
And somehow, that’s worse than anything he could’ve said or done.
I don’t know whether I want to throw something at him or drag him into an empty locker room and tear that composure to shreds.
And the worst part? I think he already knows that. I force myself to sit through the rest of practice, but every second feels like a test of how much I can take before I snap.
Grant never looks at me again.
Not once. And that feels awful. Because he knows I’m here, exactly where I’m sitting.
And now?
He’s making me feel his absence like a damn punishment. I should leave before practice ends. Before I have to face him.
Before I have to pretend my entire body hasn’t been on high alert for the last hour, hyper-aware of every damn thing he does.
I quietly stomp my way down to ground level, by the tunnel the players use to get from the ice to the locker room. The cold air from the ice nearby makes me shiver.
But I hesitate there for a second too long. And then the whistle blows. The players start skating off the ice. And before I can make my escape, he’s there.
Grant moves toward me with the same deliberate pace he always has—calm, controlled, unreadable.
I tell myself I’m not going to react. That I’ll stand my ground and act like this isn’t affecting me.
But when he stops in front of me—towering over me, sweat-damp hair pushed back, looking entirely too smug for someone who just spent an hour pretending I didn’t exist—
I feel it everywhere.
"You always this interested in hockey, Flight?" Low, smooth, laced with amusement.
I raise a brow. "You always this interested in ignoring people?"