Page 23 of Stick It
Her head snaps up, and she stares at me from behind the cage of her helmet like I just grew a second head.
I stop at the boards, leaning casually on my stick as I meet her gaze. In for a penny, in for a pound. “You’re pulling your weight off the shot,” I explain. God fucking knows why. “That’s why it keeps going wide.”
She blinks at me, her brow furrowing. For a moment, we just stare at each other, the silence stretching thin. Then, without a word, she adjusts her stance, rolls her weight forward, and takes the shot.
The puck…goes wide.
Her shoulders slump, her audible sigh making it all the way to where I stand on the opposite side of the rink. With a defeated push of her legs, she skates after the puck. Her head is bent, not looking at me as she mutters something too low for me to hear.
I should just go. Leave her to it. She’ll either get it or she won’t. I’ve already told her what her problem is. Not my fault if she can’t make the shot.
Except, I seem to have left all common sense at home today because instead of opening the gate and getting off the ice, I press down on my toes and skate across the rink…toward her.
She stiffens as I stop beside her, pulling off my gloves before dropping them onto the ice with a dull thud.
“What are you doing?” She’s staring at me warily, watching my every move.
“I’m showing you how to do it,” I grunt. “Get into position.”
She stares at me for so long I nearly tell her to forget it. Fuck knows I’ve better things to do than have a silent stare-off with a girl I don’t know in the middle of the rink.
However, she eventually, achingly slowly, turns to face the net, getting herself into position just like I asked.
She stays there, and I move to stand behind her. There’s distance between us, but I notice the way her body tenses. I can’t put my finger on why, but something tells me to take it slowly with this girl. She’s like a wild horse, and if I move too fast, I’ll spook her.
Slowly, deliberately, I lift my hands to hover just above her arms, a breath away from touching her.
“May I?” My voice is gruff, an odd scratchiness to it.
She nods—barely—and I press my palms against her forearms, slightly adjusting her position. My fingers are light but firm as I fix the angle of her stick, then shift her weight slightly forward over her skates.
“Go again,” I murmur, stepping back.
She exhales, tightening her grip before she takes the shot. The puck ricochets off the post—a near miss.
“Better.” I nod in approval before pushing off to retrieve the puck, placing it down with deliberate precision in front of her. “Don’t overthink it this time. There’s just you, the puck, and the net. Focus on that. Nothing else matters.”
She nods, all of her attention focused on the round black rubber disk in front of her. Rolling her shoulders, she takes her stance without requiring any correction from me. This time, as she shifts her weight, driving the stick forward, her movements are fluid, confident. The sharp crack of her stick connecting with the puck is followed by a satisfying smack as it hits the back of the net.
She freezes for a moment, gaping at the net as she processes what just happened. Then, suddenly, she throws her arms in the air and lets out a cheer, her excitement filling the empty rink.
“Yes! Finally!” she exclaims, spinning to face me.
Before I can process what’s happening, she’s launched herself at me, arms wrapping around me in a spontaneous hug.Her gloves thud softly against my padded back, her helmeted head bumping my shoulder. “Do you know how long I’ve been trying to master that shot?!”
I stiffen in her embrace, completely caught off guard. My first instinct is to step back, to push her away, but I don’t. Awkwardness floods my chest, but it’s quickly replaced by something else—a heat curling low in my stomach. Her energy is infectious, her joy so raw and unguarded that it feels like it’s brushing against parts of me I didn’t know existed anymore.
She pulls back almost as quickly, sliding a few feet away on her skates. Her cheeks are flushed beneath her helmet as she ducks her head, not quite meeting my eye. “Sorry,” she mumbles, her voice small. “I got carried away.”
I don’t know what to say. So instead, I clear my throat, gesturing toward the puck. “Go again.”
She nods, clearly grateful for the shift in focus, and lines up to take another shot. Her movements are smoother this time, her confidence bleeding into every step. The puck sails into the net, and she lets out another triumphant sound, this time keeping her excitement in check.
We fall into a rhythm—her shooting, me retrieving—without another word spoken. Every time she lines up a shot, my eyes track her movements, analyzing every detail. She’s good. Better than I even realized. And relentless.
Just like me.
For the first time, I feel something like respect creeping in.
