Chapter 7 Eli
SEVEN
ELI
It’s not that I don’t notice Max most days—it’s that today, I can’t seem to stop noticing him.
He’s at the bench, clipboard in hand, looking as if he’d rather wrestle a grizzly than be here, but every time I cut past that side of the rink, my stomach does this stupid little flip.
Because his eyes follow me. I can feel it, like a warm press against the back of my neck that never quite goes away.
And the more I catch his gaze, the more I can’t help but play into it. A tighter turn here, an extra flick of my glove there. Not that I need to show off—I’m the goalie, not the star forward—but I can feel him watching. Calder’s eyes track everything I do, every move I make between the pipes.
So yeah, maybe I’m leaning into it. Maybe I drop lower, faster, just to hear the sharp crack of the puck against my pad, to prove I’ve got it handled.
The next shot comes harder, and I go down for it—too fast, too deep into the butterfly. My pads hit the ice, but something in my groin tugs wrong, a sharp, white-hot sting that zips up my inner thigh.
“Fuck—” The sound tears out of me before I can swallow it. I freeze for half a second, breath hissing between my teeth, but the puck’s already rebounding, and there’s no time. I push back to my feet, skating it off, pretending like nothing happened.
“Starling, you good?” someone calls.
“Fine!” I shout back, forcing a grin. My voice comes out too bright, too tight.
It burns when I stretch my leg, but I can’t stop now. Calder’s still watching, clipboard in hand, that unreadable focus locked on me from the boards.
So I square up again, pretending I don’t feel the pulse of pain every time I move, pretending I’m not stupidly trying to impress the guy who’s going to murder me if he figures out I just tweaked something in my groin.
When the whistle blows, I skate off for the water break, fighting not to limp. Each stride sends a sharp stab up my thigh, and I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste copper. Just a strain. Just a pull. I can work through it.
Todd calls out, “You good, Starling?”
I force another fake ass smile, catching my breath through my teeth. “Yeah, all good. Just stiff.”
It’s a lie. The muscle’s screaming.
I glance toward the boards and catch Max’s eyes narrowing, tracking the subtle hitch in my step. Shit. He knows.
I wave him off, grab my water bottle, and head back to the crease before he can say anything. The guys are already lining up for the next drill, and if I bail now, I’ll never live it down.
The puck drops again. I move slower, more careful—but not careful enough. A sharp pivot sends fire ripping up my leg. I swallow the curse and keep going until the whistle sounds for the next rotation.
Todd waves in my backup. “Starling, take a lap. You’re moving weird.”
“I’m fine,” I shoot back automatically, trying to skate it off again.
I make it through the rest of practice without wimping out, but I’m sure I’m limping as I skate toward the exit.
And that’s when I see Max. Clipboard forgotten, expression carved from stone. He steps out onto the ice, boots crunching against the edge, and his voice cuts through the rink like a blade.
“Off. Now.”
The command leaves no room for argument.
I try for a grin, but it’s shaky. “Guess I was…distracted.”
His jaw tightens like he knows exactly what distracted me.
By the time I’m off the ice, Max is already halfway down the tunnel, motioning for me to follow as I limp behind him. He doesn’t say a word, just pushes the locker room door open and lets it shut behind us, muffling the noise from the rink. Then he heads into his examination room.
It’s quieter in here, except for the sound of my skates on the rubber flooring and the low, clipped tone of his voice.
“Pants down,” he demands, trying for a straight face, and grabbing the first-aid kit from the shelf.
I hesitate just long enough to be annoying, untying my lands and lowering them to the floor with a little too much flourish.
Then I pull down my Under Armour just low enough for him to check out my groin.
His gaze flicks up—quick, sharp—but lingers for half a beat before he schools his face into that unreadable mask.
“Where’s it hurt?” he asks, already reaching for a pair of gloves.
“Here.” I press my fingers against the tender spot at the junction of my leg and inner thigh. He steps closer, close enough that I can see the darker flecks in his eyes and smell the faint trace of his cologne.
Shit, he smells amazing. I inhale deeply, drawing as much of him into my lungs as I can. Fuck. My body is being punished.
He crouches slightly, gloved fingers brushing my thigh as he checks for swelling. The touch is clinical—mostly. There’s a carefulness there too, as if he’s memorizing the shape of me under his hands.
“Feels like a mild pull,” he mutters, his voice low. “You probably overstretched when you dropped into that butterfly. You’re lucky it’s not worse, but you’ll need some rest.”
“How long?” I ask, trying to sound casual but hissing when his thumb finds the sorest spot.
“Couple days of rest,” he says. “Ice it every few hours. No skating, no drills, no hero shit.”
A slow grin tugs at my mouth. “Yeah, well… maybe if someone hadn’t been staring at me the whole damn practice, I wouldn’t have been distracted.”
His eyes snap up to mine. There’s the briefest flicker, surprise, maybe, or the urge to deny it, before his jaw tightens.
“Watch your mouth,” he says gruffly, straightening. But he doesn’t step back right away, and I swear I see the corner of his mouth twitch fighting a smile.
That’s all the invitation I need.
I lean in, closing the inches between us until my breath brushes his jaw. “Or what?” I murmur, tilting my head just enough that my lips almost graze his. I catch the way his pupils flare, the tiniest hitch in his breath—
Then his gloved hand presses flat against my chest, holding me just out of reach as he puts space between us.
“Or I’ll tell them you pulled your groin and bench you for longer than a few days,” he says, voice low and even, like it’s not a threat but a promise.
I huff a laugh, because he’s still close enough that I can feel the heat rolling off him, still close enough that if I just leaned in a fraction more—
His eyes narrow, as if he knows exactly where my head is going. “Don’t test me, Eli.”
“Too late,” I say, but I let him finish checking me over, smug at the flush creeping up his neck.
He steps back first, peeling off his gloves and shoving them into the trash, snapping it closed. “You’re fine. Go shower, take it easy on the groin.” His tone is clipped, almost brusque, but he won’t look me in the eye.
By the time I’m heading to the shower, he’s already halfway to the door, shoulders tight, as though he’s putting space between us before either of us does something we can’t take back.
Which, to me, is all the proof I need, because you don’t run from something you don’t want. And I really, really want to be the thing he stops running from.
The steam clings to me as I push open the shower room door, towel slung low on my hips. My hair’s dripping down my neck, leaving a damp trail over my shoulders, and I’m already thinking about food and maybe a nap, until I spot him.
Max is back over by his stall, rummaging in the med kit as though it’s the most important task in the world. Except when I pass, his head turns slightly, and his gaze skims down my chest. Lingers. Tracks the line of the towel before coming back up.
It’s quick. Controlled. Subtle enough that none of the guys around us notice; Peter’s arguing with Daniel about some half-baked prank, Denver’s yelling across the room for someone to throw him his hoodie. The usual post-practice chaos.
But I feel it. That weight of attention, steady and deliberate, touching every inch of me without laying a hand on me.
I slow down just a fraction, enough to make the path from the showers to my stall take a heartbeat longer. Enough to see the way his jaw ticks knowing exactly what I’m doing, and unsure whether to look away or keep watching.
He keeps watching.
I bite back a grin, turning my back to dig through my bag, every movement exaggerated just enough to pull the towel tighter against my hips.
His eyes on my skin heat me up in every possible way, burning right through the noise and chatter of the room until it’s just me and him and this invisible thread tugging between us.
I’m halfway through pulling on my boxers when his voice cuts through the noise.
“Before you take off, I want to check that shoulder,” Max says, tone low but carrying enough authority that it shuts down any chance of me brushing it off.
Not that I would. Then, after a beat, “And your groin one more time. To make sure there wasn’t more damage than I originally thought.
Ice, heat, rest, and stretching are mandatory. ”
I glance over my shoulder at him, catching the faintest flicker in his expression, something more than trainer-mode professionalism, but it’s gone before I can pin it down.
“You worried about me, Calder?” I ask, grinning like it’s a joke.
He doesn’t smile. “I’m worried about having to explain to the coach why his player’s too banged up to stay on the ice.”
“Right, that’s why.”
“Once you’re dressed, Starling, come by the trainer’s room,” he says, ignoring my comment.
He tilts his head to the door off to his side.
It’s his private examination room, and it's completely unnecessary to check my shoulder and groin. But I’m not going to call him on it.
Nope, I’m going to dive head-first into whatever craziness this is.
I give him a lazy salute, because I can’t help myself. “Yes, sir.”