10. January 31, Monday #2
Their expressions shifted, more concern now than guilt, but she couldn’t stand there long enough to soak in it.
“It’s fine,” she added too quickly. “I’ll just…talk to Babs. Maybe there’s a way to do it smaller. Or with, like, volunteer rec players who aren’t about to lose their lungs.”
She started to turn away. She’d taken maybe two steps, the tightness in her chest pressing higher, when a familiar ripple went through the guys.
The murmur of voices dipped, then rebalanced, orienting.
Zoey didn’t have to look to know why. She could feel his presence the way she sometimes felt a storm rolling in; subtle pressure changes, tiny hairs lifting along her arms.
Ilya.
She glanced back despite herself.
He was threading his way through the tables with a tray in his hands full of protein, broccoli, something beige and sad, probably quinoa.
His hair was still damp from a shower, curling a little at the ends, and he’d swapped his workout gear for a fitted long-sleeve team top and gray sweatpants that did sinful things to her sense of professional detachment.
She yanked her gaze upward before her brain registered the cut of his thighs.
Nope. Not today.
He paused at the head of the table, eyes sweeping the group in a quick, instinctive scan. It was subtle, but she’d seen it enough to recognize he was counting bodies, checking injuries, reading the room’s mood before he even sat down.
His gaze landed on her last. She could have sworn the air changed temperature.
“Zo,” he said, voice low and a little surprised, like she’d materialized out of nowhere.
She noticed faint smudges under his eyes too and lines of fatigue bracketing his mouth.
He still moved like his body weighed nothing, but there was a stiffness at his shoulders she recognized from that night in the locker room, the one where he snapped at a reporter, then collected himself in the span of three seconds like flipping a switch.
“Hey,” she said, aiming for breezy and probably landing somewhere around winded bird.
He set his tray down and turned, leaning his hip on the edge of the table, posture relaxed but watchful. “What did I miss?”
Several of the guys shifted; a silent, collective flinch.
Zoey’s insides contracted. “Oh, nothing,” she said too fast. “Just me bothering them with my grand plans to turn you all into overworked camp counselors.”
Ilya’s brows tugged together. “Camp?”
“She had this idea,” Tommy started.
“Great idea,” Ty cut in.
“Really, really good idea,” Ian echoed dutifully.
Zoey wanted the floor to open up and swallow her. “You know what? It’s fine. I got ahead of myself. They already have a lot on their plates. You do too. It was stupid—”
His gaze sharpened. “I’m sure it wasn’t stupid.”
“Oh, no. It totally was. Don’t listen to them. They’re just trying to make me feel better.” She tried giving a roguish grin but by the way he frowned, Zoey figured she missed the mark.
“Tell me your stupid idea.” His blue eyed gaze felt like a cheesy sci-fi tractor beam holding her in place. His tone had turned gentle, undercut with something else. Curiosity? Or…assurance?
Her cheeks heated anyway. “It is not… I’m not… It’s seriously not a big deal.”
“Zoey.” He said her name the way he took charge of his team: steady, controlled, unyielding. “Tell me.”
Everyone was watching now, but they were doing it with…eager expressions? Their exhausted demeanor from before was gone.
Her skin prickled.
Unsure what that meant, she turned back to face Ilya and suddenly became acutely aware of various small details of him: the way his hands scratched at the stubble on his cheek, his long fingers nicked with little cuts.
A faint bruise on his jaw. The scar through his blonde left brow she’d always wanted to ask about but never had.
She swallowed, throat dry. “It’s just… Something for the kids at the group home. A ‘Little Cyclones’ camp. A few sessions where they could get on the ice with you guys, learn basics. Give them…something stable. Fun. Something to look forward to instead of court dates and supervised visits.”
She tried to keep the rambling under control this time, but her hands had other plans. They flapped helplessly in front of her, painting the air with her desperation.
Thank baby Jesus that her coffee had a lid or her hands would have third degree burns.
People like her were the reason why coffee came with “caution: hot” reminders.
“I’d handle everything,” she rushed to add.
“Scheduling, logistics, liability, media, snacks. You would literally only have to show up, skate, and not emotionally scar any children. But I know trade deadline and playoffs are around the corner and you’re all dead on your feet, so I totally understand that this was probably the worst possible timing… ”
She shut herself up by biting the inside of her cheek.
Silence fell again.
Ilya didn’t fill it. He just watched her. There was a faint curve at one corner of his mouth, but his eyes were intent, focused in that unnerving way that made her feel like he saw beyond the words to the messy little wants she hadn’t said out loud.
Heat crawled up her neck.
She realized, belatedly, that she wasn’t just selling an outreach idea. She was pleading for something else too—connection, maybe. A way to braid her job and her secret foster hopes together into something real. To prove to herself that she could do both.
She exhaled. “Anyway,” she finished lamely. “That’s it. Nothing earth-shattering. Just…wanted to get some thoughts from the players and make some notes…which I will jot down as soon as I get back to my office. Lots of good things to…jot.”
The guys shifted again. A few looked like they wanted popcorn, glancing from her to Ilya like they were watching a romcom.
Ilya’s lip twitched, and he turned his head slightly, taking in his teammates one by one. It wasn’t dramatic. He didn’t glare or lecture. He just…looked.
Tommy grinned and shrugged…and immediately winced, grabbing his shoulder, and breaking eye contact with Ilya with a slight grimace.
Ty gave an encouraging nod.
Ian raised his eyebrows and looked meaningfully at Zoey, which had her frowning at him.
What was that supposed to mean?!
Bobby, two seats down, met Ilya’s gaze with a challenging eyebrow raise, before going back to his book.
Pavel’s confused expression kept darting from person to person, not quite following what was happening.
Whatever passed between them, it wasn’t voiced. But Zoey felt it like a current under the table.
Then he looked back at her. “How many kids?” he asked.
Her stomach did a weird, hopeful little lurch. “At the home? Not all of them would want to skate. Maybe twelve? Fourteen? We could cap it to make it manageable if that was a concern...”
“Rink availability?” he continued.
“I already checked schedules for both rinks.” She flushed when his eyebrows lifted. “What? I plan. It’s my love language. There are some late-afternoon slots this month and a couple weekend openings.”
“And you handle waivers. Transport. This is your part?”
“Yes,” she said quickly. “Everything except the actual hockey.”
He nodded once. “It sounds great. We’ll do it.”
No fanfare. No hesitation. Just a calm, captain-voice decree that slid into the space where her humiliation had been and built something solid instead.
The shift in the room was instant. It wasn’t that the guys suddenly leaped up and cheered. But the resistance, the subtle leaning back, the guarded expressions, evaporated.
Ty exhaled. “If we’re doing it, I call dibs on teaching slap shots.”
“You are not teaching slap shots to five-year-olds,” Bobby said dryly. “I’ll take backward skating. Safer.”
Ian grinned, the first real grin she’d seen from him that day. “I’m doing celly practice. Somebody’s gotta teach them how to chirp.”
“I’ll help the tiny ones,” Pavel said. “The ones who fall a lot.”
“You mean all of them?” Tommy asked.
Laughter rolled around the table, genuine this time.
Zoey stood there, stunned. A minute ago, she’d been retreating. Apologizing. Mentally composing the email to Babs where she’d frame this as a simple scheduling conflict rather than a personal failure.
Now they were divvying up roles like it was already on the calendar.
Her gaze snapped back to Ilya. Who was watching her with an indecipherable look of a man who hadn’t rearranged the laws of her universe with just a few words.
But there was a hint of a smile playing at his mouth. The barest ghost of smug satisfaction in the set of his shoulders, like he’d pushed a boulder and enjoyed the feel of it moving.
Her throat tightened. “Wait,” she managed. “You…you don’t have to—”
“I did not say they have to,” he interrupted, tilting his head toward his teammates without looking away from her.
“I said we will do it. That includes me. If they don’t want to help, they can explain to the kids at our next visit why I was the only one on the ice.
” Ilya took that moment to turn towards the grinning guys, who quickly wiped their faces clean and as if on cue let out a chorus of groans.
“Emotional blackmail,” Ian muttered. “My favorite leadership style.”
“Shut up,” Ty said. “You’ll cry the first time a kid lays a hit on you.”
“Will not,” Ian mumbled.
Zoey’s laugh came out choked.
“Zoey?” Bobby’s voice cut through the din. She turned to find him watching her with that steady, assessing gaze of his. “You okay?”
No. Absolutely not. Her chest felt too full. Her eyes burned, traitorous. She nodded anyway. “I…yeah. I’m…Thank you. Seriously. This means more than I can…” She trailed off, afraid if she kept talking she’d start crying in the middle of the cafeteria like an over-invested Hallmark heroine.
She turned back to Ilya. “You didn’t have to do that.”
He finally looked at her again, and the full weight of his attention nearly knocked her off her axis.
“It’s the job,” he said simply.