12. Niall
CHAPTER 12
NIALL
Excitement pulsed through the rink, an undercurrent of chatter and movement as kids laced up skates, parents sipped from steaming cups, and Mavericks players checked their gear. The scents of ice, rubber, and hot chocolate mingled in the air. Energy thrummed beneath it all—the kind that came with anticipation and nerves.
A few of my teammates were already scattered across the ice. Micah and Hunter were by the intermediate group, chatting with kids who looked eager to show off. Nico and Roman laughed as a couple of advanced skaters attempted to one-up each other in a race. It was the biggest turnout we’d ever had for a clinic, and if the constant buzz of conversation was any indication, we had Eli and Asher’s marketing efforts to thank for that.
Speaking of?—
Asher’s voice cut through the noise before I even saw him. “There’s our fearless captain.” He grinned as he and Eli skated toward me, hands shoved into his hoodie pocket. He fit in effortlessly, throwing a nod to Micah and clapping Roman on the back as they passed. He’d been supporting the Mavericks for years, so this was just another day for him.
Eli, though—he didn’t just look around. He absorbed everything, that sharp, quiet focus of his taking in every detail like he was committing it to memory. The overhead lights caught in his blond curls, turning them almost gold, and when he turned his head, the blue of his jacket made his eyes look even brighter.
Something twisted low in my gut, sharp and unexpected. I never noticed shit like that about people—not about guys, anyway. But with Eli, it was impossible not to.
I forced my gaze away, tightening my grip on my gloves like that would steady something in me that had no business being unsteady.
I shoved the thought aside, adjusting the strap on my glove. “Big turnout.”
“Told you the marketing would work.” Asher bumped Eli’s shoulder. “And we’re about to get some solid shots for the assignment.”
Eli nodded. “Today’s gonna be great. We’ll have enough material to put together a killer campaign.” His gaze flicked to me. “You ready?”
“Yeah,” I muttered, focus dropping to the laces of my skates.
Coach’s whistle cut through the noise. “All right, let’s get started! Beginners over here, intermediates in the middle, advanced on the far end.” He gestured across the ice, directing the kids into their groups. “Team, pair up and take charge of your assigned level. We’re making hockey players today.”
His words were directed at us—the Mavericks. The team. My guys.
As I looked around, I could see the rest of the squad already moving, cracking jokes, or offering tips to the kids. Micah and Hunter had already corralled their group of intermediates, while Nico and Hunter were talking strategy with the advanced skaters. It felt natural, like we’d done this a hundred times before, but there was something different today. A buzz in the air, the anticipation. It was contagious.
I skated toward one of the beginner groups, which Roman and I would be coaching. A few kids already wobbled on their skates, gripping the boards like lifelines. Others bounced on their blades, ready to go.
A boy no older than six clung to the barrier, his lower lip caught between his teeth. His name tag read ‘ Jamal .’
I crouched down in front of him, keeping my voice light. “You planning on holding that wall hostage all day?”
Jamal peered up at me, his eyes wide beneath the oversized helmet. He shook his head, but his grip on the barrier tightened. “I don’t wanna fall.”
I smiled, glancing down at his small feet. “Everyone falls. You’re not the first. The trick is getting back up.”
He glanced uncertainly at his skates, then at the ice, before his gaze darted back to me. “What if I can’t get back up?”
“You will,” I assured him. “And if you don’t, I’ll help you.”
There was a long pause, and for a second, I thought he might back out. Then, slowly, he lifted his hands from the barrier, looking at my gloved fingers before placing his small hand in mine. He was still tense, his body language unsure, but he was ready to try.
I helped him onto the ice, and his legs wobbled immediately, like a newborn deer on shaky legs. He took one hesitant step, then another, his arms flailing to keep his balance. I moved backward, steadying him with a firm grip on his hand, but he didn’t stop.
“See? You’re skating,” I said, my voice encouraging.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then his face lit up—he straightened his posture, a smile slowly spreading across his face. “I’m doing it,” he whispered to himself, a tiny laugh escaping him as his confidence began to build.
Nearby, Eli raised his camera. The sight sent a flicker of something through my chest—annoyance at first, then something else. Awareness. I didn’t like being in photos, and knowing he was documenting this made me stiff. Too conscious of my posture, the way I moved. But then another kid called my name, and another, and somewhere along the way, I stopped caring about the lens following me.
A girl in bright pink gloves tugged at my jersey. “Coach Niall, can you show me how to do that spinny thing?”
I huffed a laugh. “A pivot?”
She nodded, blonde ponytail bouncing.
“All right, watch closely.” I demonstrated, turning sharply on my edges. A chorus of “whoa!” and “cool!” followed, the kind of enthusiasm you couldn’t fake.
The shutter clicked again. This time, I didn’t mind.
* * *
Break time gave the kids—and the players—a chance to catch their breath. Most of them crowded around the benches, gulping down water, adjusting gear, or just leaning against the boards while they talked. A couple of the younger kids sprawled out on the ice, making lazy snow angels in the thin layer of shaved ice. A few of my teammates messed around near center ice, flipping pucks back and forth, while some of the older kids tried to copy them with varying degrees of success.
I stayed where I was, rolling my shoulders, watching. That was when Eli skated toward me.
I noticed it before I could stop myself—how easily he moved, his strides confident and smooth, like he’d been doing this his whole life. He wasn’t just decent; he was good. I should’ve looked away, but I didn’t. I tracked his every movement, the way his posture adjusted as he slowed to a stop, the effortless way he balanced.
And I was still watching.
“That was some nice skating,” I said, the words out before I could think better of them. They landed awkwardly between us.
Eli’s lips quirked like he wasn’t sure if I was messing with him. “Thanks?”
I cleared my throat, shifting my weight on my skates. “Didn’t think you’d be this comfortable on the ice.”
His smile widened slightly. “Guess I had a head start. My parents put me and my sister in lessons when we were kids.”
That threw me for a second. “Really?”
Eli nodded. “Yeah. They thought it would help when we traveled for winter holidays.”
I blinked. Winter holidays. Plural. Like it was a thing they just… did.
I looked at him again, really looked. He didn’t carry himself like some rich kid, but it made sense now—the easy way he talked about things I’d never had growing up. Winter holidays. Lessons just because.
“Guess that paid off,” I muttered, nodding at the ice beneath us.
Eli chuckled. “Yeah. I guess so.”
My family never did stuff like that. Our version of a trip was piling into the car to visit relatives a few towns over, my mom complaining about my dad’s driving, my dad pretending not to hear. Me in the backseat, stretched out.
A sharp pang hit me in the chest. I’d give anything to do that again. To sit in that car, listening to my mom hum along to the radio, my dad cracking jokes that only he found funny. Even if it meant a stiff neck from dozing off against the window. It would still be one more moment with them.
“Niall?”
Eli’s voice pulled me back to the present. I blinked, forcing my shoulders to relax.
He tilted his head slightly, watching me like he was trying to figure something out. But instead of pushing, he said, “I took some pictures earlier. Groups, mostly. Got a couple of you with the kids.”
The shift in conversation was a relief. I exhaled and nodded. “Yeah?”
Eli smiled, warmth in his eyes. “Mhm. You wanna see?”
Eli adjusted the lens of his camera before holding it out to me. “Here you go,” he said.
I hesitated for a second, then took the camera from him. Our fingers brushed against each other, and for a brief second, I felt a tiny jolt of something. Something unexpected. I quickly focused on the camera in my hands, not sure what to make of the moment, but not wanting to dwell on it, either.
But I noticed the switch—a couple of weeks ago, he’d been snapping pictures with his phone at the park. Now, he was using a real camera. It felt like a sign that he was getting more serious about his photography.
The first picture that came up was of a group of kids on the ice, grinning wildly with their arms slung around each other. The next one showed a few of the Mavericks mixed in, helping some of the younger skaters keep their balance. I spotted Asher with a kid clinging to his arm and Roman laughing with a couple of little girls, who had clearly roped him into some kind of game.
Then, there were those of me.
I was aware he’d taken the first couple of them, but as I switched from picture to picture, I realized Eli had taken several others. One of them was taken when I was crouched on the ice next to a little kid who looked about seven, their tiny skates barely keeping them upright. My head was tilted down, listening to something they were saying, and even though my expression was serious, there was something… softer about it.
Eli was watching me when I glanced up. “You’re a natural with them,” he said simply.
Heat crawled up the back of my neck. Compliments weren’t new to me—hockey guaranteed plenty, whether from fans, coaches, or reporters. But this? This wasn’t about my game, my stats, or my performance on the ice. It wasn’t something I could brush off with a nod or a thanks. It was real, and I didn’t know what to do with that.
I shifted, handing his camera back. “You’re pretty good at that, too.”
“At what?”
I cleared my throat. “Taking pictures.”
Eli blinked at me, surprised for a second, before his expression softened into something almost shy. “Thanks, Niall,” he said before ducking his head, adjusting the lens of the camera like he needed something to do with his hands.
For the first time in weeks, it felt like some of that weird tension between us had lifted. Not gone completely, but lighter, like we could exist in the same space without every interaction turning into something sharp-edged or awkward.
Before I could think of anything else to say, Asher skated over, breathless from laughing. “Man, they’re a handful, but this turnout is awesome. We definitely have what we need for the assignment.”
Eli grinned. “It was a great opportunity, Niall. I’m glad you suggested we come here.”
Asher nudged my arm. “What do you think, Cap? The kids wearing you out yet?”
I exhaled, glancing around at them—at the way they were talking, laughing, chasing each other across the ice. I wouldn’t admit it out loud, but something about all of it settled deep in my chest.
“Not yet,” I said.
Asher was right—the turnout was solid. Kids of all ages zipped across the ice, some wobbling, some racing each other like they were already in the NHL. Parents leaned over the boards, snapping pictures, and a few of my teammates were spread out across the rink, helping kids keep their balance or leading small drills.
Roman skated up beside me, his usual easygoing smirk in place. “You seeing this? Some of these kids already have better hands than Hunter.”
A kid no older than eight overheard him and gasped. “No way! Hunter’s, like, really good!”
Roman grinned, ruffling the kid’s helmet. “Yeah, yeah. He’s okay, I guess.”
The kid skated off to where Hunter was giving a few pointers, and Roman bumped my shoulder. “You’re kinda killing it with these kids, Cap.”
I wasn’t sure about that, but I nodded anyway, my gaze drifting to Eli. He was a little ways off, crouched down, talking to a couple of kids who looked absolutely fascinated by whatever he was saying. A few seconds later, one of them darted off, and before Eli could fully straighten, another kid barreled into him at full speed.
Eli went down—hard enough to land on his ass, skates sliding out from under him. His hands slapped against the ice, his camera strap twisting around his wrist.
A few people turned to look, but no one moved.
I was already on my way.
He pushed up onto his palms, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe that had just happened. His ears burned red beneath the rink’s overhead lights, and his mouth pressed into a tight line, like he was trying not to react and show that, yeah, he was probably a little embarrassed.
I skated up, extending a gloved hand. “C’mon.”
Eli exhaled through his nose and took it. His fingers curled around mine, solid and warm even through the gloves. I pulled him up in one smooth motion, but he must not have had his balance yet because the next second, he stumbled forward, crashing into me.
Chest to chest.
I caught him instinctively, hands gripping his waist to steady him. His breath ghosted against my neck, warm from exertion, and I felt… everything . The press of his body against mine. The rapid rise and fall of his chest. The way he tensed but didn’t pull away immediately.
Something flickered beneath my ribs. Sharp. Unfamiliar.
I didn’t get a chance to make sense of it before Eli stepped back, clearing his throat. “Uh—thanks.”
I let my hands drop. “Yeah.”
He dusted off his sleeves even though there was nothing there, gaze flicking anywhere but at me.
I didn’t know what the hell just happened, but I felt it.
And I had no idea what to do with that.
Rookie Coach’s whistle cut through the noise. Break was over.
Roman skated past, leading a few kids through a passing drill, and I forced myself to focus, kneeling to adjust one of their helmets. It should have been easy to shake off the moment with Eli.
But it wasn’t.
Even as kids tugged at my sleeve, even as Roman called my name, my mind strayed.
To the way Eli had looked up at me.
To the warmth of his arm beneath my palm.
To the way, for just a second, it had felt natural—like I was supposed to hold on.
I clenched my jaw and shoved the feeling down.
I didn’t have time for this.
Didn’t have space for it.
Didn’t want it.
At least, that’s what I told myself.