Page 25 of The Save

And then there was Rob. His power play stats were impressive, as were his shots and goals. No surprise there.

I flipped to Logan’s sheet and pursed my lips. I didn’t hate the guy since he’d put on his big boy pants and apologized to Shar, but he still wasn’t my favourite person. But numbers didn’t take into account personal feelings.

“Impressive, right?”

I nodded. “No wonder he was scouted.” I exhaled and leaned back in my chair, fingers smudged, my head somehow clearer than it had been all week.

Chase swallowed his bite of sandwich. I hadn’t even realized he was eating. “So who sucks at the penalty kill?”

“Tim, but I didn’t need to look at the stats to tell you that.”

Lowered eyes, a small puff of air, and that smile. Chase wadded up the parchment paper and threw it in the trash. “I should’ve emailed you. About the tutoring.”

“This was all it took to convince you?” I took another forkful of salad.

He picked up a pen from his desk and fiddled with it. “Maybe I was caught up in my own shit. I wasn’t remembering.”

My breathing slowed. “Remembering what?”

He shrugged. “How good you are at this. The math, but more so the teaching.”

I swallowed. “I really don’t understand how you could forget. You aced your Math 20 midterm because of me.”

Chase didn’t speak. Just watched me.

Right there.It was moments like this.

He’d always been throwing curveballs, never responding as I expected him to. That’s what gave him such an air of mystery in high school. I could never tell exactly what he was thinking. That damn puzzle I couldn’t solve.

His gaze made me self-conscious enough that I reached for the highlighter sitting in a wooden pen holder on the desk. In the process I knocked it over, sending his writing utensils sprawling.

“I’m so sorry, I?—”

“It’s fine. Here.” Chase started scooping up the pens and pencils, while I again went for the highlighter, and somehow, my hand was suddenly trapped between his.

We both froze. My fingertips logged every modicum of sensory input available to them. His palm was warm. Rougher than mine. His fingers extended past my wrist—I hadn’t realized his hands were so large.

And my brain? Misfiring. Because I enjoyed this feeling, and it felt as if I’d been waiting for it. Thirsting to feel him. Like I’d been biding my time since . . . well, since I was fourteen. Since I’d seen his hand tapping a rhythm on my kitchen counter.

Now here I was. Taking full stock of the heat flashing over my skin, the tingling at my fingertips, the shortness of breath. Here I wascollecting data.

I yanked my hand back, sending the highlighter flipping into my lap. “I was—so you’re bleeding possession minutes on your third line.” I pulled the sheet toward me and clicked the cap off the pen. “Swap Axel in when you’re up a goal. He can eat the zone time and buy you breathing room.”

Chase dropped the pens back in the wooden box. “Noted.”

Chapter

Ten

The bleachersof the Douglas Dome were already buzzing when I squeezed between Shar and Crystal, nearly dropping my smoothie in the process. It wasn’t warm enough to justify an iced drink under normal circumstances, but once the temperature hit ten degrees Celsius in Alberta after a long winter, it was basically shorts weather.

The smell of popcorn, rubber, and that industrial cleaner they used on the concrete floors hit me like it always did—familiar and comforting, but tonight? It also heightened my nerves. Tuesday evening, I‘d handed the file back to Chase, and I had no idea what he was going to do with it. He wasn’t sure if Coach Blakely would even consider letting him mess with the shifts, but I crossed my fingers. The data didn’t lie.

And tonight, the Outlaws were playing Red Deer Central College’s team, the Ravens. When we played them on their home ice earlier in the season, they beat us in a shootout.

I found Chase pacing behind the bench, his shirt sleeves rolled up. I bit my lip.

"I’ve never liked this team," Crystal muttered, eyeing the Red Deer bench. Their jerseys were deep red with silver piping, and their goalie looked like he could bench-press a Zamboni.

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