Handled #2
Practice goes well. Better than well, actually—the team responds to whatever energy I’m putting out, matching it with a fluidity I haven’t seen in weeks. The power play sequence clicks. Passing drills run clean. Even the scrimmage has a flow to it that’s been missing all season.
I find myself laughing at one of Shep’s ridiculous celebrations after a good goal. Actually laughing, not just tolerating.
Boone catches my eye from across the ice. Raises an eyebrow. I shrug.
When we finish, the energy in the locker room is different. Lighter. More like a team and less like a collection of individuals trying to survive their captain’s intensity.
I’m still processing that when Virgil appears in the doorway.
“Got a minute, Foster?”
Virgil doesn’t ask for minutes. Virgil dispenses cryptic wisdom whether you want it or not, usually while doing something mechanical to Sleetwood Mac. The fact that he’s requesting a conversation sets off alarm bells.
“Sure.”
I follow him out to the rink, where the Zamboni sits in patient silence. He leans against it, studying me with those disconcertingly sharp eyes.
“You’re different today.”
“Everyone keeps saying that.”
“Everyone’s right.” He crosses his arms. “Question is whether you know why.”
“I got some sleep.”
“That’s not what I’m asking.” His gaze doesn’t waver. “Something shifted. I can see it in how you move, how you talk to the guys. You’re not strangling everything as tight as you used to.”
“Is that bad?”
“I didn’t say bad.” He pulls a rag from his pocket, starts polishing a spot on the Zamboni that’s already perfectly clean. “Just different. And difference has causes.”
I don’t respond. Virgil has a way of drawing confessions out of silence, and I’m not ready to confess anything.
“You know what I’ve learned in sixty-eight years of being alive?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “People change for two reasons: they learn something new, or they want something new.”
“And?”
“And yesterday you were wound tight enough to snap. Today you’re loose enough to laugh at Shep’s nonsense.” He meets my eyes. “That’s not learning, Foster. That’s wanting. And wanting changes people faster than knowledge ever will.”
The observation cuts deeper than it should. Because he’s right—this isn’t about emotional exercises or Post-it notes or breathing techniques. This is about Gisele. About what she makes me want, who she makes me want to be.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I admit.
“Nobody does.” Virgil shrugs. “Difference is whether you pretend you do or admit you’re figuring it out as you go.”
“You make it sound simple.”
“It is simple. Hard, but simple.” He tucks the rag back in his pocket. “The question isn’t whether you know what you’re doing. The question is whether you’re going to keep doing it.”
“Keep doing what?”
“Whatever put that look on your face this morning.” His mouth twitches—almost a smile. “The one that says you’ve got something worth protecting and you’re terrified of screwing it up.”
I don’t have a response. Virgil doesn’t seem to expect one—just pushes off from the Zamboni and heads toward the equipment room, leaving me standing alone with the echo of his words.
Something worth protecting.
That’s what she is. What this is. And I’m treating it that way—have been treating it that way since the moment I woke up and realized I didn’t want to compartmentalize what happened.
The drive home is quiet. I run through the day—practice, the team’s response, Virgil’s observation—trying to catalog what’s changed and why.
The answer keeps coming back to her.
To the way she looked at me last night, soft and hopeful and scared. To the way she didn’t demand labels, didn’t push for definitions, just asked if I was going to show up.
I showed up.
I keep showing up.
And when I finally tune back into my surroundings, I realize I’m not driving home.
My truck is parked outside Glamboozled. Muscle memory. My body knows where it wants to be even when my brain’s still arguing about whether that’s smart.
Apparently my body won the argument.
I don’t remember deciding to come here. Don’t remember making the turn off the main road, navigating the familiar streets, pulling into the small lot behind the salon. I was on autopilot, and autopilot brought me here.
To her.
The lights are on inside. Through the window, I can see her moving between stations, probably doing whatever closing routine she does every night.
She hasn’t noticed me yet—just going about her evening, unaware that I’m sitting in my truck like a stalker, wrestling with the realization that my body knows things my mind hasn’t caught up to.
I could leave. Could drive home, pretend this didn’t happen. Preserve the distance I’ve always maintained, the control I’ve always prioritized.
My hand reaches for the door handle instead.
I’m halfway across the parking lot before I consciously decide to move. The door chimes when I push it open, and Gisele looks up from the register with an expression of surprise that quickly shifts into warmth.
“You’re back.”
“Apparently.”
“Did you need something?”
I stop a few feet from her, trying to find the words for something I don’t fully understand.
“I didn’t plan to come here,” I say. “I was driving home and I just... ended up here.”
“Is that a problem?”
“I don’t know.” I run my hand through my hair.
“I don’t know what any of this is. I don’t have a plan.
I don’t have a strategy. I just know that when I finished practice, the only place I wanted to be was here.
With you. Not the salon, not the exercises, not the structure.
You.” The confession scrapes my throat raw on the way out.
Her expression softens. “Bennett—”
“That’s not normal for me.” The words tumble out before I can stop them. “I always have a plan. I always know the next move. But with you, I just... I keep showing up. I keep making choices that don’t fit any strategy I’ve ever built. And I don’t know what to do with that.”
She sets down the papers she was holding. Closes the distance between us. Takes my face in her hands.
“You don’t have to do anything with it,” she says quietly. “You just have to let it happen.”
“That’s terrifying.”
“I know.” She smiles. “But you’re here anyway.”
I am here anyway. Despite the fear, despite the uncertainty, despite every instinct telling me to protect myself by staying controlled.
When she kisses me, I stop fighting it.
When she takes my hand and leads me toward the back room, I follow.
And when we end up tangled together on her couch again, I don’t try to compartmentalize it afterward. Don’t construct narratives that make it smaller than it is.
I just hold her.
And let myself want this.
Whatever this is—whatever it becomes—I’m already there.
My actions have made the choice my words haven’t.
Now I just have to catch up.