Chapter 37
Istepped onto the ice and immediately felt exposed.
The gear I’d cobbled together from the spare equipment room didn’t fit right.
Shoulder pads that hung loose, elbow pads that slid down my forearms, a helmet that sat too low on my forehead.
My glasses kept fogging, and I was wearing jeans and a T-shirt underneath it all because I hadn’t exactly planned on skating today.
But worse than the ill-fitting gear was the weight of Andrew’s attention.
Andrew was waiting at center ice, stick in hand, and the second my skates hit the ice, his whole face lit up.
“There we fucking go!” He slapped his stick on the ice. “Let’s see it, Quinn!”
Oh god.
I knew I could skate. I knew my edges were decent, my backwards crossovers were clean. I’d been on the ice with Chappell, but that had been different, that had been me getting comfortable again.
And now? The Andrew Knox watching me, expecting something, wanting to see what I could do.
What if I looked pathetic? What if I caught an edge and went down hard?
I pushed off. My legs remembered the motion, but my brain was screaming at me not to fuck this up.
Don’t look weak. Don’t stumble. Don’t give him a reason to see you as less than.
I wobbled slightly on the first few strides, fighting to find my balance.
Fuck.
“Jesus, you’re a disaster,” Andrew called, but he was grinning.
I used to be decent at this. Not great, but decent. Good enough that I’d dreamed about it, back when I was stupid enough to think I could have this life.
I pushed off, finding my stride. The muscle memory kicked in immediately, even if my brain was currently short-circuiting.
Andrew skated up beside me, effortless and fast. “Not bad, Quinn.”
“I know how to move.”
“Yeah?” He circled around me. “Let’s see it then.”
My nerves spiked again. Knowing I could skate and proving it in front of Andrew Knox were two very different things. What if I looked slow compared to him? What if my form was sloppy? What if—
Stop. I’d been good. I was good.
I pushed harder, picked up speed, executed a tight turn that would’ve made my college coach nod in approval.
Andrew let out a low whistle. “Okay. Okay, I see you.”
Something in my chest loosened.
He tossed me a stick. I caught it one-handed, the weight settling into my palm like it had never left.
“You remember what that’s for, right?” He was grinning.
“Fuck off.”
The words came out before I could stop them, and for a second I thought maybe I’d gone too far.
Andrew’s grin only widened. “There he is. Thought you were gonna be all nervous and polite about this. That would’ve been boring.”
And just like that, I relaxed. Just a little.
Right. I could do this. I had done this. Maybe not at his level, not even close, but I knew how to play. I knew positioning. I knew plays. I’d spent my entire life studying this game.
I just had to stop being so fucking worried about what he thought and actually play.
“Come on,” Andrew said, already moving. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
We started with passes. Then shots. I missed the first few, but my body was remembering faster now. The fifth one went in clean.
“There it is!” Andrew slammed his stick on the ice. “Again!”
I hit two more. Andrew was grinning, feeding me pucks, celebrating every goal like I’d won a championship.
But I could tell he was holding back.
“Stop going easy on me,” I said.
“You’re rusty.”
“I’m not made of glass, Andrew. Actually try.”
Something in his expression changed. That competitive fire I’d seen during games, that edge that made him dangerous. His grin turned sharp.
“You sure about that?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.” He skated backward. “But don’t cry when I destroy you.”
“Just fucking try me.”
The difference was immediate and brutal.
Andrew came at me like I was an actual opponent—fast, aggressive, relentless. He stole the puck before I could blink.
“Too slow!” He deked around me, fired a shot. “Keep up, Quinn!”
But I did keep up. My body remembered, all those years of hockey didn’t just disappear. I read his movement, got my stick in, knocked the puck away.
Andrew’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh shit! Okay!”
We battled for it. I checked him—hard enough that he felt it.
“Fuck yeah!” He shoved back, laughing. “Do that again!”
I did. We went at each other, really went at it, and I could tell Andrew was loving every second. He was talking shit, celebrating when I made a good play, pushing me harder when I didn’t.
“Is that all you’ve got?”
“Come on, you can move faster than that!”
“There you go! That’s what I’m talking about!”
The building was empty, just us and the ice and the sound of sticks and skates and Andrew’s voice echoing through the rink. I was sweating through my shirt, legs burning, but I didn’t want to stop.
Andrew stole the puck, deked left. I read it this time, went with him, got my stick in. The puck skittered away.
We both went after it.
I got there first. Saw the net. Saw him coming.
Took the shot.
Top shelf. Clean. Perfect.
The puck hit the back of the net.
I stopped skating. Just stood there, breathing hard, staring.
I’d scored on Andrew Knox.
There was a second of silence.
Then: “Holy shit!”
Andrew skated toward me fast, stick raised. “Top shelf! Against me!” He slammed into me, grabbed my shoulders. “You beautiful son of a bitch!”
“I—”
“That was fucking perfect!” He was shaking me, grinning so wide it looked painful. “Do it again!”
“Andrew—”
“Do it again! I want to see if that was luck!”
We went again. And again. I didn’t score a second time, Andrew blocked all of them, but the energy didn’t drop. He was in his element, and he’d pulled me into it with him.
We kept going until my legs were shaking, until I could barely breathe.
Finally, I stopped. Bent over, hands on my knees, gasping.
Andrew skated over, not even winded. “You done?”
“Can’t. . . breathe. . .”
“If you’re talking, you’re breathing.” He pulled off his helmet, ran a hand through his sweaty hair. “That was fucking awesome.”
I straightened up, looked at him. At the sweat on his face, the way his blue eyes were still bright with adrenaline, the massive grin he couldn’t seem to get rid of.
“You’re insane,” I said.
“You’re the one who kept up.” He bumped my shoulder. “Seriously. That was good. Really good.”
The adrenaline was still pumping through me, making everything feel sharp and alive and electric.
I looked at Andrew. At the way he was looking at me, like I’d just surprised him in the best possible way.
“Locker room,” I said.
His eyebrows rose. “What?”
“Locker room. Now.”
His grin shifted into something darker. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Fuck.” He was already moving. “Let’s go.”