Chapter 12 #2
And yet, as I skated back into formation, I caught myself glancing up again—just once. Just enough to see if she was still watching.
Practice wound down with a final whistle from Barrett, sharp and absolute. We circled in again, slower this time, breathing heavy, steam rising off our shoulders like smoke off a battlefield.
Coach stood at the edge of the bench, arms crossed over his chest, clipboard tucked under one arm like it had seen more war than any of us. He scanned us for a beat before speaking—never rushed, always weighing every word like it might stick in our ribs.
“You moved better today,” he said, voice gravel-low and calm.
“But you’re still giving too much space in the neutral zone.
Toronto’s transition game will eat you alive if you give them time to breathe.
” He pointed his pen at a few of us—me, Asher, Wyatt.
“Backcheck harder. Stay tight on the gap. No more drifting.”
Kakashi Harada, our assistant coach, chimed in then—quiet, but not soft.
“Watch their left wing. Fast skater, likes to pull the defense out with wide curls before cutting inside. Don’t chase him.
Angle him out, force the pass.” His voice had the kind of weight that came from years on the ice, subtle but exact.
He didn’t talk a lot, but when he did, you listened.
“And their goalie bites on fakes. One extra move can open him up.”
Barrett gave a final nod. “Stay smart. Stay disciplined. You’re the better team—if you remember to play like it.”
He didn’t wait for cheers or fist bumps. Just turned and walked off like he always did, leaving his expectations hanging in the air behind him like fog.
We knew the drill. The hard work wasn’t in the game—it was right here, in the hours no one saw.
The sound of skates clicking against concrete echoed through the tunnel as we made our way back to the locker room, jerseys clinging to sweat-slicked skin, breath still ragged from the final drills.
The boys were chirping again—Asher claiming he’d skated faster than Weston, Jared threatening to retire if he didn’t get power play time next game.
It was all noise in the background as I pulled off my gloves and unfastened my helmet, mind already shifting toward the next 48 hours.
Steam billowed around me in the showers, hot water pounding against sore muscles. I leaned into the tile wall, letting it soak into me. It wasn’t just physical exhaustion.
I was washing off—it was the pressure, the responsibility, the constant weight of being expected to perform, to lead. For ten minutes, I didn’t think about games or systems or even Mina. I just let the water work.
Afterward, I dressed in silence. Dark jeans, black hoodie, clean socks—routine, familiar. I laced my boots slowly, methodically, before slinging my duffel over one shoulder.
The others were still halfway through razzing each other, music playing low from someone’s speaker.
I didn’t say much.
I rarely did.
But the second I stepped out of the locker room and saw the arena doors ahead, my chest tightened with something that wasn’t fatigue. She was probably out there—waiting.
And for the first time in a long time, someone waiting felt like a reason to move faster.
As I stepped out into the hallway beyond the locker room, the cold air bit at my skin through the thin cotton of my hoodie, but it wasn’t the chill that made my pulse tick up a notch.
They were already there—three of them, leaning casually against the wall like it was all an accident.
Lip gloss shining under the fluorescent lights, fake lashes batting like they were in a pageant.
One of them angled her body just right to block my path, her voice dripping sugar as she said my name like it tasted sweet on her tongue.
“Nikolai…”
I didn’t stop.
Didn’t slow.
Didn’t even blink.
My eyes had already found her—Mina. Standing near the far wall, cardigan sleeves pulled over her hands, paper cup cradled between them like it was the last warm thing in the world. She wasn’t even looking for me at first. She was just… waiting. Like she’d always meant to be there.
Then her eyes lifted and found mine, and something shifted.
She straightened a little, her mouth tugging up into that crooked, unassuming smile that knocked the wind from my lungs in a way no punch ever had.
Her nose was pink from the chill. Her hair was half-tucked into the hood of her coat, messy and real and perfect.
The girls behind me tried again—laughing too loudly, saying something I didn’t bother to catch.
Because I was already moving.
Past them. Through the static. Toward her.
Each step felt anchored and certain, like gravity had tilted slightly in her direction and I had no choice but to follow. Because that’s what it felt like now—being around her. Like I was choosing her, over and over, without hesitation.
And as I stopped in front of her, she looked up at me like I was something worth seeing—not a name on a jersey or a highlight reel, but a person. Mine, maybe. I wasn’t sure when that thought had rooted itself so deeply, but it pulsed now like a second heartbeat.
“Hi,” she said, soft but steady.
And I almost smiled.