Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
KATE
The arena feels different the second time.
If anything, it’s louder, but I’m not walking into it blind any more. I notice things I didn’t before. The rhythm of it all. The way the sound rises and falls depending on where the puck is. The sharp crack of sticks, the scrape of blades on ice. It’s not just noise any more. It’s structured.
Hudson walks beside me, shoulders slightly hunched in that way he does when he’s trying to play it cool, but his eyes are everywhere as he takes in his surroundings.
“These are good seats,” he says, attempting to hide his amazement, but the twitch in his smile reveals his true feelings.
I glance down at the tickets in my hand again, even though I’ve checked them twice. “Apparently.”
Good seats is an understatement.
We’re rinkside, right behind the players’ bench. Close enough that I can see the marks on the glass and the scuffs on the ice, the way the players move past in quick bursts of speed and energy. We’re so near the ice that it doesn’t feel like watching a game anymore; it feels like being inside it.
Hudson leans forward slightly, hands gripping the top of the barrier. “You can hear them,” he says as he watches the players talking animatedly below us.
“I know.”
Voices carry differently here. We can hear short, sharp instructions and names being thrown around, along with the occasional shout. It’s fast and constant, like everything else about this sport.
“Do you see him?” Hudson asks, scanning the ice.
I don’t answer straight away, because I’ve already found him.
Lukas is skating warm-up laps, head slightly down, his movements are loose but controlled.
There’s something different about him out here again.
He seems more focused and dialled in. Less playful than he was in the car park, less open than the conversation at the tram stop. This version of him appears sharper.
As if he feels me looking at him, his head lifts and his gaze lands directly on us.
On me. It’s not dramatic; there’s no double-take or pause.
Merely a flicker of recognition that settles into something warmer, something quieter.
His mouth curves slightly, barely there, before he taps his stick once against the ice and keeps moving. My stomach flips.
“Yeah,” I say, a second too late. “I see him.” I lean in to Hudson and point down at the ice toward where Lukas is.
Hudson follows my line of sight. “He’s quick.”
“That’s kind of the point, isn’t it?” I reply, grateful for the distraction.
Warm-ups pass in a blur of movement. Pucks fly, players rotate, and shots hit the glass with sharp, echoing cracks. I find myself watching Lukas more than I probably should. The way he anticipates moves before the play fully forms fascinates me.
Patterns.
I wasn’t wrong before.
The game starts faster than last time, somehow.
Or maybe I’m just noticing it more now. The pace snaps into place almost immediately, with both teams pushing hard and testing each other.
Hits come early, heavy against the boards, and the sound of impact carries straight through the glass as it vibrates.
Hudson doesn’t flinch this time. He leans in. “That was clean,” he mutters after a particularly solid check, as if analysing it rather than reacting to it.
I glance at him, smiling slightly. “Research, right?”
“Yeah,” he says, but there’s no real denial in it now.
On the ice, Lukas receives a pass along the wing, then cuts inside at a speed that leaves me breathless. It’s a display of controlled chaos as he navigates through traffic, seemingly knowing exactly where everyone will be next.
“Watch him,” Hudson says suddenly, sharper now.
“I am.”
Lukas pulls the puck across his body, slipping past a defender with a movement so smooth it looks effortless, then snaps a shot towards the goal.
Saved.
The rebound goes out wide, and the play changes instantly, vanishing as fast as it appeared. I exhale slowly, only then noticing I was holding my breath.
“Close,” Hudson says.
“Very.”
There’s a strange tension that settles in my chest after that. Not nerves exactly, but something else, awareness, maybe. Every time Lukas touches the puck, I feel it. The shift in the crowd and the anticipation resonate with me in a ridiculous way. And yet, I can’t seem to stop tracking him.
Midway through the first period, play briefly pauses.
A whistle sounds, and the players drift towards the bench, some hopping over the boards, others staying out to catch their breath.
Lukas skates towards the glass, towards us.
I straighten instinctively, my pulse kicking up for no good reason.
He slows as he reaches the boards, one hand resting on the top edge of the glass as he looks at Hudson first.
“You are enjoying?” he asks, voice slightly breathless but steady.
Hudson nods once. “Yeah.”
Lukas studies him for half a second, as if confirming it’s genuine, then reaches down, scooping a puck off the ice with an easy flick of his stick.
Before I can process what he’s doing, he lifts it slightly and taps it against the glass.
Right in front of Hudson. It drops into the small gap at the top, and Hudson catches it instinctively, his eyes widening just a fraction.
“For your research,” Lukas says with a smile.
Hudson looks at the puck in his hand, then back at him. “Thanks.”
It’s understated and casual, but I notice the shift in him. The way his shoulders loosen a fraction more. Lukas glances at me then.
“Try not to overanalyse,” he adds lightly.
I huff out a small laugh. “No promises.”
His mouth curves again into that same subtle smile before he pushes off the boards and skates back into position as play resumes. As I watch him go, something warm settles in my chest.
“That was decent,” Hudson says.
I glance at him. “That’s high praise from you.”
He turns the puck over in his hands, studying it like it’s something important. “He didn’t have to do that.”
“No,” I say quietly. “He didn’t.”
The game picks up again quickly after that.
The second period is rougher. Faster. The hits come harder, the play seems tighter.
Not that I really understand the rules, but there’s less space, less time to think.
Lukas takes a hit along the boards that makes me wince, my hands tightening around the edge of my seat, and before I can stop myself, I’m on my feet, checking if he’s hurt.
Hudson notices. “He’s fine,” he says.
“I know.” But I still track him for the next few seconds until he’s back in the play, moving as if nothing happened.
“You do that,” Hudson adds.
“What?” My eyebrows pull in as I question my son.
“Watch him more than the rest.”
I hesitate. “I’m still learning the game.” Hudson gives me a look that says he doesn’t entirely believe that, but he lets it go, thankfully.
By the third period, the energy in the arena has shifted again. Every play feels heavier, more significant. Hudson is leaning forward, fully invested despite himself. “Come on,” he mutters under his breath as the play builds.
On the ice, Lukas picks up the puck near centre and accelerates down the right side. It happens too fast for me to track every move, but I see the moment he finds space. He cuts inside, drawing the defender with him, then slips a pass across the slot. He scores, and the arena erupts.
Hudson actually stands, the movement automatic, caught up in the reaction around him. “That was,” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “That was good.”
I laugh softly. “You can be excited.”
On the ice, Lukas is already pulling away from the net as teammates close in around him. He doesn’t look towards us immediately; he’s caught up in the moment, in the game. But when he does, it’s a quick glance. Somehow, it still lands.
The final minutes blur into noise and movement, and when the buzzer sounds, sealing the win, the release of energy is immediate. It’s loud, bright and final.
Hudson lets out a sharp breath, sinking back into his seat. “Okay,” he says. “That was better than decent.”
“Well, that’s progress,” I reply.
We don’t rush out with the rest of the crowd. Neither of us says it, but we both hesitate, and I ask, “Do you want to wait?”
Hudson shrugs, but he’s already sitting back down. “Yeah.”
So we stay.
The arena empties slowly, the noise fading in layers until only scattered voices and the distant hum of staff clearing up remain. Players disappear down the tunnel, one by one, until the ice is empty again.
Time stretches out before us, and then there’s movement at the bench. Lukas reappears, his hoodie now pulled over his head, and his posture is looser but still carries that same underlying energy. He spots us almost immediately.
He walks over, stopping on the other side of the glass this time, close enough that I can see the faint flush still on his skin.
“You stayed,” he says.
“Hudson wanted to finish his research,” I reply with a smirk.
Hudson huffs quietly. “It was a good game.”
Lukas nods once, like that matters more than anything else. “I’m glad we delivered.”
There’s a beat of quiet that settles between us. “Thank you,” I add. “For the tickets.”
“And the puck,” Hudson says, holding it up slightly.
Lukas’s mouth curves. “Of course.”
I hesitate before saying, “You were distracting.”
His eyebrow lifts slightly. “I said I would try not to be.”
“You didn’t try very hard.”
That earns a quiet laugh, it’s low and warm, and my stomach flips annoyingly. “Next time, I will do worse.”
Next time. The words land softly, but they stay. I really hope there is a next time.
Hudson looks between us briefly, then back at Lukas. “You play on Friday again?”
“Next week,” Lukas replies. “You will come?”
Hudson shrugs, but there’s no real reluctance in it now. “Maybe.”
I shake my head slightly, smiling. “We’ll see.”
Lukas’s gaze lingers on me for a second longer than necessary. “I’d like that.”
There’s something in the way he says it. It’s not heavy or demanding, just certain. I feel that same warmth settling again, mixed with something sharper now. Something a little more dangerous.
“Goodnight, Lukas,” I say, because it feels like the safer option.
“Goodnight, Kate.”
We don’t say anything else. But as Hudson and I finally turn to leave, the echo of it follows me into the night; the noise, the energy, the way he looked at me through the glass, as if I were part of something he wanted to keep.
And this time, I don’t try to convince myself it’s nothing.