Page 37 of Cold Front
“Put it on.”
It wasn’t a request.
I hesitated for half a second, but my body had already betrayed me, leaning slightly toward the warmth. With a sigh, I slid my arms through. The jacket swallowed me, sleeves falling past my hands, shoulders too broad. But damn, it was warm.
“Happy now?”
Ignoring my sarcasm, he adjusted the collar, his fingers brushing my neck for the briefest second. A spark—quick, startling, like a static shock, but deeper.
“That’s better?”
My throat went dry.
I swallowed. Nodded. “Yeah.”
For a second, he didn’t move. His fingers lingered, the warmth of them pressing through the fabric like he wasn’t quite ready to step away. Then—so light I almost wasn’t sure it happened—he gave my shoulders a slight squeeze.
I blinked. Had I imagined that?
No. That was definitely a squeeze.
As if catching himself, he cleared his throat and turned back to the cart like nothing had happened.
“All right. What’s next?” Niall spoke like giving me his jacket meant nothing. Like it hadn’t just completely wrecked my equilibrium.
I exhaled slowly, ignoring the way my heart tripped over itself in my chest.
Maybe this was nothing. Just him being practical.
Or maybe I was in serious trouble.
Damn it.
CHAPTER15
NIALL
The first game of the season always felt like jumping into cold water—shocking and invigorating all at once. Beneath the low hum of fluorescent lights, the locker room buzzed with nervous energy. Tension mixed with excitement, bouncing off the walls in the form of laughter, chirping, and the rhythmic thud of tape wrapping around sticks.
Across the room, Hunter Mason sat back on the bench, grinning as he jabbed a roll of Pride tape at Micah Whitmore, who was still messing with the fresh rainbow stripes on his stick.
“Looks good, Whitmore,” Hunter said. “Now try not to fall on your ass the second you step on the ice.”
Micah flipped him off without looking up. “Just for that, I hope your first shift ends in a fight and a two-minute minor.”
“Two minutes?” Hunter snorted. “You underestimate me.”
A few guys laughed, but no one argued. If Hunter was going to drop gloves, it wouldn’t be for something as mild as a shove.
Nico Alvarez leaned back against his stall, already half-dressed, eyes locked on the board. Roman Thatcher stretched out his legs, shaking them loose. Logan Hayes, our goalie, was lost in his usual pre-game ritual—headphones in, eyes closed, already zoning into whatever world goalies disappeared into before a game.
Rookie Coach stood off to the side, arms crossed, watching Coach AJ with his usual sharp focus. He didn’t say much in these moments, but he didn’t need to.
Over by the whiteboard, Coach AJ scrawled out last-minute adjustments, one hand braced against the board as he spoke. “Keep it clean tonight. First game means fresh eyes on us—refs, scouts, the whole damn student body. We play smart, we play fast, and we play our game.”
A chorus of ‘Yeahs’ and nods followed.
I sat on the bench, tugging at my left shin guard, making sure the strap was tight but not cutting off circulation. Routine. Familiar. Every time, it helped settle the pre-game jitters, the ones that always came before the first puck drop of the season. I wasn’t nervous, not really, but there was always an edge to opening night.
