Chapter 7
MATEO
The Wolves have a reputation and they show it off inside the first shift.
Physical doesn’t cover it - they hit everything that moves, they hit things that aren’t moving, and by the end of the first period Barrett has taken two penalties and Mercer is skating with the controlled fury of a man who has been hit one too many times and is doing the math on what he can get away with.
It’s exactly the kind of game I’ve always responded to with force. Meet them where they are, hit back harder, grind it out until someone breaks.
Except.
I’m in the corner, fighting for position, and instead of muscling through it I drop my weight the way she showed me and I come out with the puck.
Small. Barely anything.
But I feel it.
I look up as I cross the blue line and she’s there behind the glass, front row. She’s watching the play develop, not me specifically, and then she is watching me specifically and our eyes meet for half a second. She gives me a small nod.
I look back at the ice and make the pass and it connects and I’m back in position before I’ve finished processing it. I find myself showing off a little.
I’m aware of it and still I do it anyway. I put a shot on net that doesn’t go in but should have, and when I pull up at the boards I don’t look at her.
I want to look at her. But I don’t.
We score twice in the second. Once in the third. The Wolves pull one back and spend the last four minutes making life extremely unpleasant for everyone, but we hold it, and when the buzzer goes it’s 3-1.
I stand at center ice for a second.
3-1.
Same scoreline as the loss, same numbers, but a completely different universe.
ELIDA
They win 3-1. The difference from the last game I watched is stark.
It wasn’t perfect. It was scrappy and physical and there were passages of play that made me want to write three pages of notes. But underneath all of it, threading through the whole game in moments I could pick out like finding one single instrument in an orchestra - the skating was better.
Measurably better, in exactly the ways we’ve been working on, and more than once I watched Russo make a movement that I recognized from the private session.
He looks up once from the ice briefly, and finds me through the glass, and I give him a nod because it’s deserved.
The fact that he’s been magnetic to watch for the past sixty minutes is entirely beside the point.
The team celebrates on the ice and I start gathering my things, thinking about notes, thinking about the women’s session tomorrow, thinking about anything except the fact that I’m smiling.
I’m starting to leave when I hear my name.
Russo is coming off the ice, helmet under his arm, hair damp, and he’s grinning, which I haven’t seen before, not like this, not so unguarded, and it changes his face in a way that I was not prepared for.
He reaches me in a few strides and before I’ve processed that he’s moving that fast he’s pulled me into a hug - it’s steadying and solid.
“Drinks,” he says, still grinning, slightly breathless. “The whole team. You’re coming.”
“I-” I look past him, instinctively, and Calloway is there at the boards, jacket on. “You should go,” he says, mildly. “I’ll swing by for one myself.”
I look back at Russo.
He’s still grinning. Still close. Still looking at me like the game is somehow mine as much as his, like I’m part of this, like I belong in the celebration.
And maybe I do.
“One drink.”
The grin gets bigger.
“One drink,” he agrees, in a tone that means even he doesn’t believe what he’s saying.
MATEO
Tierney’s is loud and smells like spilled beer. I’ve never been happier to be in it.
The team takes up half the bar without trying - we’re not quiet people at the best of times and tonight is the first time in weeks we’ve felt like ourselves again. Like last season, almost. Like the version of this team I’ve been trying to get back to since October.
By the second round someone has started an argument about the Wolves’ third defenceman that has nothing to do with anything, but somehow winning makes everyone loud and opinionated.
I love these guys.
I’m standing at the edge of it all with my beer when I see her walk in.
She’s with Tara. She’s laughing at something Tara has said - properly laughing, totally unguarded.
She’s still in her dark jacket, hair pulled back the way it always is for sessions, no effort made toward the fact that she’s walked out of a rink and into a bar.
It doesn’t matter. That’s the annoying thing.
She could be in anything and it wouldn’t matter.
There’s something about the way she carries herself that does the work regardless.
I guess being a professional figure skater doesn’t hurt with that.
They find seats at the end of the long table.
Calloway arrives around nine, coat still on, stays for exactly one drink the way he always does, and makes the rounds, connecting with players in the way that makes him good at this job. He stops beside me at one point and we talk about the game for a few minutes.
Then he says, casually, “she’s good for this team.”
I keep my eyes on the middle distance. “Yeah, maybe.”
“Good for you in particular.”
“Coach.”
He finishes his drink. “Just an observation.” He sets the glass down and buttons his coat. “Good win tonight, Russo.”
Then he’s gone and the bar is loud and she’s across the room laughing at something else now and I am being completely normal about all of this.
Completely normal.
The crowd shifts around eleven - a few of the freshmen leaving for another party, the booth reshuffling. Tara gets pulled into a conversation with Ward and then the space rearranges itself and she’s nearby.
I move through the crowd toward the bar for another drink and she’s moving in the same direction. We arrive at roughly the same moment and stand next to each other waiting.
“Good win,” she says.
“Yeah. It was.”
She’s looking at the bar, not at me, fingers around her glass. “That sequence you ran in the corner in the first…”
“I know. I felt it.”
She nods, and I can see the satisfaction in it - that small contained professional pleasure.
“I might get some air,” I say, which is not what I planned to say.
She holds my gaze for a moment. “I’ll join you.”
ELIDA
The night air is a relief after the warmth of the bar, and I stand in it for a second with my eyes closed and breathe.
When I open them, Russo is leaning against the wall beside the door, beer in hand, looking out at the empty street with an expression that’s more relaxed than I’ve seen it before.
“Thank you.”
I glance at him. “For what?”
“The extra session. I could feel it today. In the game. The things you showed me - I could actually feel them working and I wanted to say that. Properly.”
He means it. There’s no performance in it, no captain-mode. He means it, plainly, and understanding that is more disarming than I was prepared for.
“You did the work.”
“Still. Thank you.”
I look away first, which I notice, and look out at the street instead, and there’s a moment of comfortable quiet.
“You know,” I say, “for a hockey player, your hip mobility isn’t terrible.”
He levels a look at me. “High praise.”
“It is, actually. Hockey players are usually stiff. As a rule. No offense.”
“Some offense,” he says, with another half-smile.
“Dancers are the gold standard. Figure skaters are close. Hockey players are… improving.”
“Improving,” he repeats, with one eyebrow cocked. “Also high praise.”
“Also, yes.” I turn to face him properly, and the teasing has taken over now in a way I didn’t quite plan, loose and flushed from the drinks. “I mean, can you even dance?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Can-”
“Dance. Actually dance.” I hold out my hand. “Show me. Salsa. Basic step.”
He looks at my hand. He looks at my face.
And then he takes it.
His hand is warm and large, and he holds mine with a sureness that shouldn’t surprise me but does.
I laugh and show him the basic step, talking him through it, one, two, three, and he gets it faster than he should, which also surprises me.
We’re laughing, and then I grab his other hand to show him the arm position and look up to check he’s following and I see that he’s not following the step anymore.
He’s looking at me.
The look is calm and direct.
I become aware, suddenly, that I am pressed against him. That the dancing and laughing has arranged us so that there is very little space between us and his hands are holding mine and my face is tilted up toward his.
I look at his mouth.
He knows. I can see that he knows, and he doesn’t move, doesn’t push, just holds my gaze with that steadiness that undoes me a little every time he turns it on me fully.
Then he lifts one hand slowly and puts his palm against my face, and says my name-
I lean in, close enough that I can feel the warmth of him, close enough that it would take nothing, less than nothing-
And he closes the gap.
It’s soft. Brief. His lips against mine for just a moment, careful and questioning, and I kiss him back because I can’t not. Standing here in the cold with his hand on my face it turns out I have no defenses left.
Then I find them.
I step back.
“We can’t.” My voice is mostly steady. “It’s unprofessional.”
His hand drops.
He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t argue or push or make it worse. He stands there and looks at me and whatever’s in his expression, I can’t read it clearly enough in the dark to know what to do with it.
“I’m going back inside.” I leave him standing there.
Tara is where I left her. I slide back into my seat and pick up my drink.
My heart is hammering for no good reason.
Outside the window, after a moment, I see him come back in through the door. He finds Chen at the bar and Chen hands him a drink without being asked, and that’s it, totally normal.
Except that I can still feel his hand on my face.
I take a long sip of my drink and remind myself of every single reason why I was right to step back from him.
There are a lot of them.
It’s just that none of them are working very well right now.