5. Olivia
5
OLIVIA
T he rink hums with activity as I make my way through the corridors, my notebook a comforting weight in my hand. The ice opens up before me, the chill in the air a stark contrast to the warmth of the bustling hallways. My eyes immediately find Liam on the ice, his presence commanding as he leads drills with an intensity that’s hard to ignore. Something else that's hard to ignore is his ass in his uniform pants, but I digress.
Our eyes meet for a brief moment, and I feel that familiar flutter in my stomach. Memories of our tour and that unexpected, electrifying moment on the ice come rushing back. I quickly look away, focusing on my notes.
I step closer to the boards, watching the practice unfold. The players move with precision, executing drills under Liam’s watchful eye. His voice cuts through the noise, authoritative and sure.
"Reynolds, keep your head up!" he shouts. Ethan adjusts his stance, shooting a glare at Liam before following his direction.
I scribble down observations, trying to capture the dynamics at play. Ethan’s struggle to fit in is palpable; it’s clear he’s still finding his footing with the team.
I spend the next half our analyzing move after move, play after play, trying to nail down what makes these guys tick.
The shrill sound of Coach's whistle grates against my ears, signaling for a water break.
Noah skates over to the boards, his helmet tucked under one arm and a grin plastered on his face. He’s breathing hard, sweat trickling down his temple, but he still manages to look annoyingly handsome. He leans casually against the boards, eyes twinkling with mischief.
"Coach Bergman really outdid himself today, huh?" he says, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. "I swear he's trying to kill us before the playoffs."
I laugh, the sound cutting through the chilly air. "Well, it looked pretty gnarley from here. I half expected someone to drop dead on the ice."
Noah chuckles, shaking his head. "Nah, we’re tougher than we look. But I wouldn't mind if someone 'accidentally' spilled coffee on Bergman's playbook."
"Sounds like a solid plan," I say, still grinning. "Maybe you can get Liam on board with that."
He snorts. "Liam? He's more likely to memorize the whole thing and recite it back to Bergman in his sleep."
Our banter flows easily, reminding me of when him, Liam, and I had lunch together. Noah’s warmth and humor are infectious, making it hard not to be drawn to him.
"So," he continues, leaning in a bit closer, "how's the article coming along? Got any juicy secrets yet?"
I smirk, tapping my pen against my notebook. "Oh, you know... just the usual stuff about pre-game rituals and locker room gossip. Nothing groundbreaking. Oh, except for the fact that I've been told some of your brethren here purchase a larger sized jock strap to make themselves look more endowed."
He spits the sip of water he just took from his bottle out of his mouth, painting the glass. "Hey," he says, mid cough, or laugh, I'm not real sure at this point. "Our pre-game rituals are sacred. Especially Colt's ridiculous sock superstition."
"Ridiculous?" I arch an eyebrow. "You mean color-coded socks aren't crucial for game day success?"
He laughs again, and it's impossible not to join him. "You'd be surprised how many games those socks have won us."
"Right," I say dryly. "I'll be sure to give them their own section in the article."
"And just for clarification," he says with a smirk. "I can't discredit the jock strap theory, as I've had my own concerns seeing what some people are working with in the communal showers…" he bends down, his mouth inches from mine. "But I can confirm that I am not one of those subjects in question."
Who knew talking about jock straps could get me flustered?
The sound of Coach Bergman’s whistle cuts through our conversation. Noah straightens up reluctantly.
"Guess that's my cue," he says with a wink.
"Back to the grind," I reply with a playful salute, it's then I realize the vague sexual innuendo included there. It's only confirmed by Noah's wide eyes, and playful smirk.
"I mean, go on, just go play some damn hockey or something." I say, knowing my blush is spreading every second this awkward interaction continues.
"Yes ma'am," he says with a wink.
As Noah skates away, I can't help but feel an undeniable pull toward him—a warmth that lingers even after he's gone back to practice. For now though, I push those thoughts aside and focus on capturing every detail for my article.
The hallway after practice is quieter than I expected, the noise from the rink fading as I head towards the exit. I’m reviewing my notes, eyes on my notebook, when I feel a sudden impact.
"Whoa!" The word slips out as I collide with a solid wall of muscle. Strong hands grip my shoulders, steadying me before I can topple over.
I look up and find myself staring into Ethan’s dark eyes, his usual gruffness momentarily replaced by something softer. Vulnerability, maybe? His hands linger on my shoulders longer than necessary, their warmth seeping through my jacket.
"You know," he mutters, stepping back quickly and dropping his hands. "I'm beginning to think you like to run into me on purpose."
"No not at all," I reply, trying to ignore the way my heart races from our brief contact. "I should probably just pay more attention to where I'm going."
"That's a good start," he says, but there’s a flicker of something in his gaze—reluctance, perhaps? Or maybe just exhaustion.
He maneuvers around me, and heads in the opposite direction. Leaving me glued to the spot I'm in, wondering if there's any subtle truth in his statement of me running into him on purpose.
I leave the arena, my mind a whirlpool of thoughts and emotions. Each step echoes against the cold concrete, mirroring the cacophony inside my head. Liam, Noah, Ethan—they’re all so different, yet each has carved out a space in my mind.
Liam's intensity and leadership are magnetic. The way he commands respect, the flicker of vulnerability when he talks about his team’s rituals—there’s something there that pulls me in. But I remind myself of his reputation, of the barriers he’s built around himself.
Noah’s easy charm is disarming. His quick wit and genuine kindness make me laugh even on the toughest days. There’s an ease to our interactions that feels so natural, like slipping into a favorite pair of jeans. Yet, beneath that carefree exterior, I sense his insecurities—a struggle I understand all too well.
Then there's Ethan. Brooding and fierce, his eyes tell stories of battles fought both on and off the ice. The walls he’s built are high, but every now and then, I catch glimpses of something deeper—something real.
I shake my head, trying to clear the fog of confusion. My footsteps quicken as I reach the parking lot, the cold air biting at my skin.
Climbing into my car, I grip the steering wheel tightly.
Focus on your career, Olivia.
With one last glance at the arena behind me, I start the engine and drive away into the night.
The echoes of their voices follow me home.