Page 8 of Slap Shot
The thought should have sent her running. Instead, it made her want to lean closer and see what happened next.
Chapter Three
Oliver
Oliver stepped onto the ice for training camp, and immediately knew he was fucked. His usual pre-practice ritual had been completely derailed by thoughts of green eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses and the way she'd admitted he made it hard for her to focus.
The practice facility hummed with familiar energy. Skates carving ice, pucks smacking against boards, the sharp whistle blasts from Coach Vicky as she directed drills. This was his sanctuary, the place where everything made sense. Except today, he kept glancing toward the observation windows, wondering if Heather was watching from her office upstairs.
"Yo, Chenny," Dmitri Volkov slammed into him with a playful check that sent Oliver sliding toward the boards. "You are skating like my babushka today. What is problem?"
"There's no problem," Oliver muttered, pushing off toward center ice where Coach Vicky was setting up the morning drill.
"Bullshit." Kane executed a hockey stop that sprayed ice chips in Oliver's direction. "You've missed three tape-to-tape passes. That's not like you."
"Maybe he's distracted," Mateo chimed in, waggling his eyebrows. "I saw him coming out of a meeting yesterday looking all secretive."
"Ooh, secretive," Ethan added. "Was it contract negotiations? Are you getting traded?"
"Nobody's getting traded, kid," Jax said, gliding past. "But something's definitely got our boy rattled."
Oliver shot them all a look that usually shut down locker room interrogations, but Kane just grinned, which meant he was about to become insufferable.
"I bet it's a woman," Kane announced to the group. "Chenny's got that 'I just got my world rocked' look."
"It's not a woman," Oliver said through gritted teeth.
"Definitely a woman," Dmitri agreed, nodding sagely. "Is like when I first meet Oksana Could not skate straight for week."
"Who's Oksana?" Ethan asked.
"My cousin's neighbor's daughter. Very pretty, very mean. She tells me my English is terrible."
"Your English is terrible," Liam pointed out from the goal crease.
"You’re mean too."
"Gentlemen," Coach Vicky's voice cut across their conversation like a blade. "If you're done analyzing Chenofski's love life, we have work to do. Two-on-one drill, starting with our distracted winger here."
The team erupted in wolf whistles and chirps as Oliver grabbed a puck and headed for the corner, his face burning. This was exactly what he didn't need, his teammates' attention focused on his nonexistent personal life right when he actually had something worth hiding.
He broke toward the net with Dmitri flanking him, Noah backing up as the lone defender. Oliver held the puck until the last possible second, then tried to slide a pass across to Dmitri. The puck hit Noah's stick instead, and the veteran defenseman cleared it easily.
"Chenny." Coach Vicky's whistle cut through the air. "Get over here." Oliver skated to the boards where she stood, arms crossed, with the kind of expression that meant she was about to make his life difficult.
"Just need to warm up more, Coach."
"Uh-huh." She studied him with sharp hazel eyes that missed nothing. "Or maybe you need to get whatever's bothering you sorted out before you step on my ice. This team doesn't have time for players who are somewhere else mentally."
The rebuke stung because it was fair. Oliver nodded, jaw tight. "Won't happen again."
"See that it doesn't. Now run it again, and this time pretend you actually want to be here."
The next drill went better. Oliver forced his mind to focus on the familiar rhythm of hockey—read the defense, find the open man, execute. By the time they moved to power play practice, he was back in sync with his linemates, threading passes through traffic and finding soft spots in coverage.
"There's our boy," Jax said, bumping fists with him after a particularly smooth sequence that ended with Mateo scoring from the slot. "Whatever got you back on track, keep it up."
Oliver was about to respond when movement in the observation deck caught his eye. Heather stood at the railing, arms crossed, watching the practice. She wore dark jeans and a team pullover that made her look both professional and casual.
