Chapter 13
The Usual
I hear Calder before I see him. Puck impacts. Skates carving sharply across the ice. The familiar scrape of a stick against the boards. Something inside me loosens before I can stop it.
Then the nerves arrive.
My grip tightens briefly around my skate guards as I cross toward the rink. The almost kiss followed me home last night. Followed me into bed. Followed me through every failed attempt at sleep. Calder pulling away. The look on his face afterward. The silence that stretched between us.
Part of me spent the entire walk here preparing for this to feel different. Worse.
Awkward.
Calder skates into view. Our eyes meet across the ice.
The memory lands instantly. His gaze shifts away first. Not dismissive.
Not distant. Just careful. I step onto the ice.
For the first few minutes everything feels slightly off.
We move around each other too cautiously.
Calder gives my drills more room than usual.
I avoid drifting into his space. The distance feels deliberate. Which makes it feel wrong.
"Your timing's off," Calder says eventually as he skates past. His voice sounds rough with exhaustion.
Familiar. Normal. The tension in my chest loosens so fast it almost makes me dizzy. I exhale.
"Finally."
Calder glances over. "What?"
"You being annoying before sunrise."
For a second he just stares at me. Then the corner of his mouth lifts. And suddenly the rink feels like somewhere I know how to stand again.
The corner of his mouth lifts automatically.
During the next drill, Calder skates closer without seeming to notice he's doing it. I adjust my transition around his path instinctively. No hesitation. No second-guessing. One correction and suddenly we're moving around each other the way we always do.
The realization catches me off guard. Twelve hours ago we were sitting in my apartment almost kissing. Now Calder is cutting across the ice exactly where I expect him to be. And somehow my body knows what to do with that.
"Better," he says quietly.
"You're deeply controlling."
"You're welcome."
The banter settles back into place after that. Small comments. Corrections. Inside jokes. Calder knocks a puck lightly toward the boards near me during drills. I send it back automatically with the edge of my blade. By the third exchange, neither of us is thinking about it anymore.
Calder skates behind me during a sequence and his hand brushes briefly against the middle of my back.
Warm through the thin fabric of my training top.
Steadying. Gone before I fully process it.
A few minutes later I land a jump slightly off-centre and his hand closes around my forearm before I can lose the edge completely.
His grip tightens once.
Then releases.
"Your edge drifted," he says.
Like his hand wrapped around my arm is the least interesting thing that just happened. Unfortunately, my nervous system appears to disagree.
A few drills later Calder steps in behind me and adjusts my shoulders into position. His hands settle briefly against my upper arms. Firm. Warm. Familiar enough that I hate noticing it. He tells me to try again and skates away before I can think too hard about any of it.
I push through the sequence once more, glide toward the boards, and toss him his towel without looking. The catch happens immediately.
One-handed.
Of course it does. By the time I turn around, he's already shaking his head at something I haven't said yet.
"Thanks."
"No problem." The exchange barely requires thought anymore.
At some point during a break, Calder leans against the boards beside me while retaping part of his wrist. The tape folds awkwardly almost immediately.
"You're terrible at that."
"I play hockey. Fine motor skills aren't really central to the job."
I roll my eyes and reach for his wrist before I think about it.
Calder goes still for half a second. Then relaxes.
I peel the tape back and redo the edge properly while he continues complaining about something involving team travel.
My fingers brush warm skin. Calder watches for a moment, then looks away again like this isn't worth mentioning.
Maybe it isn't.
"You're welcome," I say when I finish.
Calder flexes his wrist once, testing the tape. A few minutes later he reaches over and tugs lightly at the sleeve of my jacket.
"Your lace is loose."
I glance down. Too slow. Calder is already crouching. His hands move automatically, tightening part of my skate laces while continuing a story about a teammate who refused to wash a lucky pair of socks for an entire season. I stare at the top of his head.
The conversation never even pauses.
A minute later he's back on his feet like nothing happened.
Maybe it did happen often enough to be normal now.
Training ends. Nobody mentions coffee. Nobody asks plans.
The routine unfolds anyway. I slide my skate guards on while Calder gathers his gear.
He tosses my jacket toward me without looking.
I catch it automatically.
The movement earns no reaction from either of us. Neither does the fact that when we step off the ice, Calder ends up beside me. The same as always. The same as yesterday. The same as every morning lately. By the time I notice it happening, we're already walking toward the exit together.
"You'd freeze without me," Calder says.
"Your hero complex is exhausting."
Calder grins. A minute later we're already walking toward the bakery down the street.
Cold air brushes across my face while Calder walks beside me with one hand shoved into his hoodie pocket.
Close enough that our shoulders knock together every few steps.
Neither of us adjusts. Calder yawns halfway through a complaint about early morning conditioning drills.
"You're getting old," I tell him.
"You fell over because somebody sneezed once."
"I regret telling you that."
Calder laughs. Warm. Low. The sound settles somewhere beneath my ribs. I gave up pretending not to notice that weeks ago.
We reach the café and Calder holds the door open automatically while I head toward the counter.
The barista glances up. "Usual?"
It takes me a second to realize she means both of us. Calder doesn't hesitate.
"Yeah."
I blink. Apparently we have a usual. I reach for my wallet automatically. Calder catches my wrist before I can pull it out.
"I've got it."
"You paid yesterday."
"And?"
His fingers stay there for a second longer than necessary. Then release. Neither of us says anything. The barista hands Calder his coffee first. Before he can reach for the sugar, I slide two packets across the counter. The movement happens automatically. Calder looks over.
"You memorized my coffee order already?"
"You complain every morning while making it."
For a second he just looks at me. Then that small smile appears. Not the grin. Not the teasing one. The quieter version. The one I've started recognizing. The one that makes something inside me go strangely still every time I see it.
We settle into a booth near the window. Calder slides in beside me instead of across. His knee finds mine beneath the table automatically, familiar enough now that neither of us reacts. The barista follows with a napkin holder.
"You two are here basically every morning now," she says casually.
Calder hums beside me while reaching for my coffee before I can. He drags it closer, glances at the lid, and frowns.
"Your lid's loose."
He tightens it himself. Like this is a completely reasonable thing for him to be doing. The barista watches the exchange with obvious amusement.
"Honestly," she says, "you're my favorite couple before seven a.m."
Everything inside me goes perfectly still.
The kind of stillness that comes before stepping onto competition ice.
Before the music starts. Before the first movement commits you to whatever happens next.
Beside me, Calder pauses too. Only for a second.
Long enough to feel it. Neither of us corrects her.
Calder turns his head slightly and looks at me. Amused. Careful.
"That's a horrifying title."
The barista laughs and heads back toward the counter.
I look down at my coffee. Part of me should probably say something.
Instead I'm aware of entirely the wrong things.
The warmth of Calder's leg against mine beneath the table.
The way his shoulder brushes mine whenever he shifts.
The fact that somewhere along the way he started touching me in public as naturally as breathing.
His hand settles briefly against the back of my chair while he stretches.
Small.
Automatic.
Habitual.
The sort of unconscious contact that comes from repetition. From comfort. My stomach does something deeply unhelpful. I take a drink of coffee that is still far too hot. The burn is easier to deal with.
The bakery door opens again and two men built very much like Calder walk in. One of them spots us immediately. His eyebrows lift.
"Well, this is new."
Something shifts beside me. Small. Fast. Calder doesn't tense. Doesn't pull away. Doesn't even change expression. But the ease disappears. The version of him that exists when it's just us slides quietly out of reach.
"Mason," Calder says flatly.
The second teammate looks between us and grins. "Okay, wow."
I recognize both of them from interviews and post-game clips.
Familiar faces from screens and post-game press conferences.
Being looked at by them directly feels different.
Like stepping onto unfamiliar ice and discovering the surface isn't behaving quite the way you expected. The booth suddenly feels smaller.
"Arabella," Calder says after a second. "This is Mason and Hayden."
The introduction lands oddly. Formal. Almost distant. Not wrong. Just different from the way he usually says my name now.
"Nice to meet you," Hayden says.
"You too."