Chapter 2
Zane
I shouldn’t have done that interview. My agent is going to be pissed.
In the background, the announcer talks about the charity event. We have to be back on the ice again in thirty minutes while three people who have never skated before try to make it to the blue line. I can’t wait for this to be over and for the game to actually start.
The audience cheers loudly, so I turn around.
I notice her before she even takes a full step onto the ice.
Leo told me about his friend joining the challenge. I had no idea who she was, but I notice her immediately.
Not because she’s loud, she’s not. If anything, she looks like she’d rather melt into the boards than be the center of attention.
But the moment she steps through the gate, something in the rink shifts.
She’s not built like the women I usually see around the arena. Not the long-legged influencer types who show up in designer jackets and pose for pictures between periods.
She is… softer than that.
She has curves, my brain immediately starts cataloging before I can stop it, hips that fill out the pink dress she’s wearing, a steadiness in the way she holds herself, even though she clearly has no idea how to skate.
When she lifts her arms to balance, the fabric shifts just enough to reveal a sliver of skin at her waist, and something in my chest goes unexpectedly tight.
She looks real.
She looks alive in a way that makes the rest of the rink fade into background noise.
And then she nearly eats it.
Her arms windmill, eyes wide, the crowd laughing affectionately as she tries to stay upright. “You can do it”, I find myself thinking.
There’s a microsecond where confidence evaporates, and instinct takes over, something I’ve learned to recognize over years on the ice.
Fear doesn’t always look like panic.
Sometimes it looks like humor.
And she looks like she’s funny.
It only takes a split second for her to fall. She goes down hard, knee-first, then hip, then the rest of her.
The sound echoes through the rink, sharp and unforgiving, and the crowd reacts in that collective, sympathetic way that always makes things worse. The same reaction they give me when I miss a shot.
I’m moving before I consciously decide to.
Not fast. Not making a show of it. Just… there. Getting to her.
Because the thing about moments like this, public, awkward, vulnerable moments, is that they don’t need a hero.
She’s already pushing herself up when I reach her, palms sliding uselessly on the ice. Her jaw is set. Her mouth curves into a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
Up close, she’s even more distracting. Pink-cheeked from embarrassment, hair falling into her face, lips pressed together like she’s already preparing the joke she’ll use to save herself from the moment.
She’s beautiful.
Not in the polished, camera-ready way people expect in my world.
In the way that sneaks up on you and knocks the air out of your lungs.
“Hey,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say. “You’re ok.”
“I meant to do that,” she replies instantly.
There it is. Armor. It’s funny. Self-deprecating. A little sharp around the edges. Delivered fast, like she wants to get there first, beat the laugh to the punch.
I crouch in front of her, careful to keep my balance neutral, my presence steady.
“Of course you did,” I say, like it’s obvious. Like she hasn’t just eaten ice in front of half the city.
Her shoulders relax a fraction.
Good.
I offer my hand, slow enough that she can choose it. She hesitates barely, but then takes it, and the contact is grounding in a way I didn’t expect.
Not electric. Not dramatic.
Just… solid.
She grabs onto me like I’m a life raft. Which, maybe, in her case, right now I am.
And suddenly I’m very aware of two things at once.
One: she’s warm through the layers of fabric between us.
Two: I have absolutely no idea who she is, but my brain has already decided she’s the most interesting person in this entire arena.
I bring her up in stages, guiding rather than pulling, because people don’t like being yanked when they’re already off-balance. She gets her feet under her, breath hitching once, then she’s standing.
The crowd cheers.
She laughs real this time and the sound lands somewhere low in my chest.
Ok. Interesting.
I don’t look at the stands. I don’t acknowledge the noise. I keep my focus on her because right now, this is the only part of the ice that matters.
“No one saw,” I say.
She glances around pointedly. “Bold claim.”
“I didn’t see anything.”
That earns another softer, more surprised laugh. The armor cracks, just enough to let something genuine through.
She looks at my jersey, and I find myself hoping she doesn’t recognize the number. I don’t want the moment where her expression shifts recalibrates, decides who I am before I’ve earned it.
I get enough of that everywhere else. On the ice, in bars, at charity events, where people already know my stats before they know my voice.
Here, I want to be the guy who helps her not fall.
Hopefully.
She wobbles again a minute later, less dramatically this time, and I catch her without thinking. My hand tightens at her elbow, my body angling automatically to counterbalance.
“I’ve got you,” I tell her, low enough that the mic won’t catch it.
And I mean it.
That surprises me.
I don’t know her. I’ve known her for maybe two minutes, most of which involved gravity trying to take her out. But there’s something about the way she keeps going. The way she jokes instead of apologizing. The way she doesn’t ask for reassurance but accepts it when it’s offered.
She’s brave in a quiet way.
The dangerous kind.
We skate together toward the boards, slow and careful. I match her pace without thinking about it, shortening my stride until it’s barely more than a glide.
She notices.
Most people do.
“Thanks,” she says again when we reach solid ground. “Seriously.”
“Anytime.”
She tells me her name. Gwen.
I tell her it’s nice to meet her. I can tell she’s expecting more. She’s expecting my name.
I don’t tell her. Not yet. I don’t want her to know everything that comes with it. Not yet. I want to hold on to this moment a little longer.
Behind the glass, I catch movement, Leo, doubled over laughing, completely losing it. His girlfriend, Tess, stands beside him with her arms crossed, looking like she’s about to murder him and start their whole relationship over just to do it again.
Ah.
This is one of those situations.
Gwen cracks a joke about lowering expectations. I laugh because it’s actually funny, not because I’m being polite. There’s a difference, and she clocks it.
“See you later, man,” I tell Leo.
The moment I address him, Gwen’s expression shifts to shock. Leo wanted to mess with her; he asked me to make sure her name got pulled from the bowl. I think she’s connecting the dots now. I also think Leo is in trouble.
I push back onto the ice. The moment snaps into its usual shape, noise, motion, and structure, but something has shifted. I feel it in the way my focus keeps dragging back to the bench, to where she’s standing with her friends, cheeks flushed, eyes bright.
Blake skates up beside me during a stoppage, helmet still on, grin already forming.
“Who was that?” he asks.
I shrug. “A participant.”
Blake’s grin is the kind that should come with a warning label.
He’s my best friend, which means he knows exactly where to poke if he wants a reaction. He also knows I’m not in the mood to be poked because my brain is doing that thing where it replays a moment like it’s trying to learn it by heart.
I keep thinking of Gwen’s laugh. The way she said, “Define good,” like she was daring the universe to argue.
The split second before she fell, her face tightened, and she braced for impact. Physically and otherwise.
I don’t like that I noticed all of that. I especially don’t like that I’m still noticing it now while we’re waiting for the next segment of the event, while the rink crew resets cones and props for whatever ridiculous “fun” thing the organizers have planned.
I shift my grip on my stick, like that’s going to reorganize my thoughts into something acceptable.
Blake leans closer. “Was she Leo’s friend? Do you know her?”
I keep my eyes forward. “I don’t. And that’s ok. It’s better this way.”
“Uh-huh.” He draws the syllables out like he’s tasting them. “Because you’re a generous citizen. A man of the people. A humble Grizzly, saving civilians from the ice with no desire for recognition.”
“Exactly.”
Blake’s chuckle is sharp. I hate that he knows me this well. We’ve been playing ice hockey together since we were fifteen. We were drafted in the same year, and from the day we met, it somehow worked.
I stare out over the rink. The crowd is still loud, still happy. The announcer is pumping up the energy in the stands. Kids in oversized Grizzlies jerseys wave orange foam claws. Cameras are everywhere, phones, staff photographers, maybe even local sports media, because of course there are.
This is supposed to be harmless. So why does my chest feel tight?
I follow Blake’s line of sight to the bench area near the boards, where Gwen stands with Leo and Tess. She’s holding a cup of something steaming, shoulders hunched against the cold. She’s laughing at something Leo says, but it’s not the same laugh as on the ice.
This one is bigger. Brighter. More practiced.
Armor again.
I didn’t think I’d be able to tell the difference that quickly, but I can. I can because I’ve seen my own armor from the inside.
When you’re being watched, you become a version of yourself you can control.
I’ve been doing it for years.
“Stop looking,” Blake says, amused.
I snap my eyes away. “I wasn’t.”
“You were.” His grin softens, the teasing shifting into something more careful. Blake taps his stick lightly against the ice. “So is she Leo’s friend?”
“Yeah. He wanted to mess with her, have her name pulled because of some dare.”