Page 70 of Stick It
Except, even when I focus on the ice in front of me, she’sthere. Sliding into the drill line across from me. Her braid is a little messy, and catching my eyes she flashes me a grin that is all teeth.
“Try not to eat ice this time, Captain,” she says low enough that only I hear.
My jaw tics.
I should shut it down. Tell her to focus. Set an example.
Instead, my mouth moves without permission.
“Worry about your own edge control, Carter.”
Her smile deepens like I’ve just proven her point.
And damn it, I like it. I like the way she fights back, the way she challenges me without crossing the line. I like that she doesn’t defer to me the way the others do.
I like it too much.
She flies through the drill with that fast, aggressive grace of hers. Sharp turns. Quick hands. Reckless as hell. And when she stops beside me, cheeks flushed from the exertion, she tosses a smug glance my way.
It should annoy me. Instead, my chest tightens.
I look away again.
I can’t want her. She’s a player onmyteam. She’s undermyleadership. And after what she’s hinted about her last team—the betrayal, the lack of safety—I know what I represent. I know what crossing that line would mean.
I’m not that guy. I won’t be that guy.
She deserves better from a captain. And I’d rather rip this interest out of my chest with a skate blade than risk being someone she can’t trust.
So I put blinders on, ones I’ve been donning for every practice recently. I tune her out. When she says something else, something that earns a low laugh from another player, I don’t turn. I stare straight ahead, counting my breaths, biting the inside of my cheek.
I have a job to do. And it’s not getting distracted by the girl who’s been a thorn in my side since day one.
And it works…almost.
We’re nearly done with practice for the day, and I’m about to pat myself on the back for managing to avoid looking in her direction, to shut down all thoughts of her when they started to creep in, when a thump against the boards catches my attention.
I turn in time to see Dylan skating away from Fletcher,rolling her shoulder out like it stings. My brows dip low, my stomach knotting.
“You good?” I call.
She shrugs, not looking back. “Yeah. It’s nothing.”
I watch her a moment longer, before ripping my gaze away and pulling those blinders back on once more.
The last few minutes of practice blurs, all of it running on autopilot while I force my brain to stay in the lane I’ve carved out. No distractions. No slipping.
By the time Coach blows the final whistle, my shirt clings to my back with sweat and my lungs burn. The guys start peeling off toward the benches, the air thick with the usual end-of-practice chatter, but there’s a weight pressing down on the back of my neck that won’t shake loose.
I coast toward the boards, falling in beside Jax, who’s unusually silent. His jaw’s tight, brows pulled low, like he’s one wrong look away from snapping.
“You look like you’re ready to murder someone,” I mutter, half a breathless joke as I push my helmet up and glide toward the tunnel with him.
He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even glance at me. Just mutters something under his breath and skates a little harder, like the ice might be able to take what he’s holding in.
What the hell crawled up his ass?
I wait near the back hallway, just outside the rink. The others have long since cleared out—bags slung over shoulders, gear rattling, loud voices fading into the night. But I stay.
