Page 38 of The Pucking Date
The rest of the team is scattered across the rink—captain’s skate chaos. Dmitri’s barking instructions to the rookies, Adam’s winding up for one of his trademark slapshots, and Wes is doing that thing where he moves like he’s about to trip but somehow still scores.
But I can’t lock in.
I’m fast, yeah. Strong on my skates. But my passes are a hair late, my shots keep drifting, and I can feel it—the thing I don’t want anyone else to see.
I’m off.
Coach isn’t here, which helps. No Novak lurking on the sidelines with a whistle and a sixth sense for whatever bullshit’s crawling under my skin. But I know the drill. He’ll hear about it from Adam or Liam, and next thing I know I’ll be getting pulled into a quiet chat about “focus” and “headspace.”
Spoiler: my head’s not where it should be.
I skate a loop, try to shake it. Try to let the burn in my thighs and the cold in my lungs clear it out.
But it doesn’t work.
Because no matter how hard I push, how fast I skate, my brain keeps circling back to the same damn thing: Jessica Novak and the night that wrecked me for every other woman.
The night that ruined me; her control stripped away piece by piece until she was straddling me, breathless and wild-eyed, begging in that voice that haunts my dreams. The way she shattered in my arms, whispering my name like a prayer, like a secret she’d never told anyone else.
And the way she looked at me after, like she was falling and wanted me to be the one to catch her.
That was months ago.
And now?
Cool professionalism and a voice that cuts glass every time she passes me in the hallway.
I could have imagined the whole damn thing.
And yeah, I’m spiraling. Over-reading every gesture, every glance, every perfectly prepared cup of coffee. Scheming ways to get her in my bed again. Trying to figure out what play to run next, how close I can get without getting benched for good.
Pathetic doesn’t begin to cover it.
I’m halfway through my second set of sprints, carving up the ice, skating the tension out of my bloodstream, when I catch Nate leaning over the boards, still in half his gear, already done with drills before the rest of us. Watching me.
He lifts a hand in a lazy salute. “You good, Romeo? Or you trying to dig a trench across center ice?”
I glide to a stop in front of him, breathing hard, sweat soaking the collar of my base layer. “Clearing my head.”
He snorts. “You mean obsessing over Novak.”
Instead of answering, I strip off one glove and swipe my hand through my hair.
Nate leans in, elbows on the top of the boards. “You want her, you chase her. But don’t kill yourself analyzing a play she’s not calling.”
I shoot him a look. “You done with the fortune-cookie wisdom?”
“Just saying, there’s spiraling, and then there’s this.”
Before I can snap at him, movement catches my eye by the tunnel.
Jessica. Standing half in shadow, phone in hand, pretending to check something on it.
But she’s not fooling anyone, least of all me. Her screen stays dark while her eyes track my every movement, andsuddenly I’m seventeen again, showing off for the girl in the stands who pretends not to notice.
And just like that, the rest of the rink fades. Because I don’t care what she’s trying to make me believe.
It’s not unusual for PR to lurk around to catch a few clips for the social media channels, but this feels different. She’s not taking notes. Not even pretending to be recording a clip. She’s watching me with an intensity that makes my next pass sail wide by a foot.
