Chapter 3
THREE
DANE
I get to the rink earlier than necessary.
It’s an old habit. Drilled into me by my dad.
You show up before anyone else. Walk the ice. Take stock of the place before the other players arrive.
It’s the same instinct that carried me through years of early mornings and late nights, long before anyone started questioning whether I still had what it takes.
A few kids from a younger age group are already skating warm-up laps while their parents settle into the bleachers. I watch automatically, cataloging movement and posture. Who skates stiff. Who’s overthinking it. Who’s fearless enough to try something stupid and get better because of it.
Then I spot Scottie.
She cuts across the ice with her head up, stick loose, feet confident. She doesn’t skate like she’s waiting for permission. She skates like she expects to belong.
“She’s good,” I mutter.
“Still is.”
I turn to find Gina standing behind the boards, bundled in a thick coat, arms folded. Her expression is careful, like she’s already braced herself for disappointment.
“Hello, again,” I say.
“Hey.” Her voice is neutral, but her eyes flick to mine and then away again.
Scottie skates over, nearly bouncing. “Can we start?”
“Absolutely,” I say, stepping onto the ice.
We spend the next half hour working on fundamentals. Edge control. Awareness. Selling a move before committing to it. Scottie absorbs everything instantly, adjusting her stance the moment I correct her.
She’s hungry for it. Not desperate. Hungry.
I glance toward the boards more than once, catching Gina watching us when she thinks I’m focused elsewhere. She looks proud. Protective. Tired in a way that doesn’t come from one bad night’s sleep.
When Scottie finally skates off to grab her gear, breathing hard and grinning, Gina steps closer.
“She’s talented,” I say. “But more than that, she’s smart. She reads the ice.”
“She’s always been like that,” Gina says quietly. “Observant.”
There’s something unspoken in the way she says it. Like she’s talking about more than hockey.
I nod. “You’ve done a good job with her.”
Her lips part, just slightly. Surprise flickers across her face before she schools it away. “It’s mostly just been the two of us.”
“I figured,” I say. “Her dad?”
She hesitates, then shrugs. “Around sometimes. Not enough to matter.”
I don’t push. I’ve learned when silence is the kinder choice.
Before either of us can say more, she surprises me by stepping through the gate and onto the ice. She moves carefully at first, then pushes off, gliding smoothly.
My attention locks onto her.
She’s still good. Better than I remember. Graceful without being precious. Confident without showboating. She circles once, twice, then stops in front of me.
“You’re staring,” she says.
“You’re dismissing,” I reply. “Still.”
She snorts. “Compared to you, I was a dime a dozen.”
“That’s not the example you want to set,” I say gently.
Her brows draw together. “Excuse me?”
“You’re allowed to be good at something,” I say. “You don’t have to shrink it just because I went pro.”
For a second, I think she’s going to snap back. Instead, something in her expression softens. Exposed. Vulnerable.
“That’s… annoying,” she says finally. “But noted.”
We stand too close. Close enough that I can smell her shampoo. Close enough that my brain flashes back to summers we spent sneaking kisses behind the rink, dreaming about futures we couldn’t imagine yet.
I step back first.
Scottie returns, gear slung over her shoulder. “Mom says we should go, but—”
Gina sighs. “Scottie—”
“Would you have dinner with us?” she says. “It’s just pizza, but it’s really good.”
I don’t answer right away. I look at Gina.
Her eyes widen slightly, like she hadn’t planned for this moment.
“I don’t want to impose,” I say. “Really.”
She studies me for a beat, then exhales. “I suppose pizza won’t hurt.”
Relief hits me harder than it should.
“Pizza it is,” I say.
As we walk out together, I catch myself imagining what it would be like to belong here again. To build something instead of chasing the next win. To matter in ways that don’t show up on a scoreboard.
It’s a worrisome thought.
But it’s also the first ounce of joy I’ve felt since my season took a turn for the worse.