Chapter 10 – Trace
chapter
ten
Trace
The chill of the rink hit me as I stepped onto the ice. Cold seeped through my gear, into the bones, the same way it always did.
Tonight wasn't just another game. It was showtime. I had to play my roles, and my gut was already telling me I was going to screw up at least one of those jobs spectacularly.
Because that's not complicated as fuck.
Scouts from three NHL teams sat in the stands with their clipboards, waiting to see if I was another Fox Coulter or just another rich kid who could skate. That was the thing about being a Coulter. The name got you in the room, but it also meant everyone was waiting for you to fuck it up.
Before I'd left the locker room, I'd done my ritual.
Twelve taps on the left goalpost, one for each letter in her name.
A superstition born from the first high school game she'd watched.
I'd scored a hat trick that night, and like the obsessive bastard I was, I'd never stopped counting letters in her name before games.
Tonight I added something new. Touched the chain around my neck where my grandfather's ring hung.
Grandpa Fox had worn it every game of his career, and Dad had passed it to me before freshman year with one instruction, Don't lose it, and don't let anyone see you touching it like a security blanket.
I'd been wearing it under my gear ever since, but tonight was the first time I'd touched it and thought of someone other than hockey.
For her.
Pathetic much?
But there it was. She was already under my skin again, making me do stupid sentimental shit that would get me mocked if my teammates knew.
During warm-ups, I spotted her in the stands.
Third row, center section, bundled up in a hat and scarf, but I'd know those eyes anywhere.
God, she was gorgeous. Dark skin glowing under the arena lights, looking like she actually gave a damn about being here, her hands wrapped around a hot chocolate as she watched the ice with an expression I couldn't quite read.
My stick hit the puck wrong and it sailed wide. Way glanced at me and raised an eyebrow.
"Head in the game, Coulter."
"Yeah, yeah." I bumped his shoulder pad with my glove as I skated past.
He followed my gaze to the stands and grinned. "Ah. Gotcha."
I dug my blades in and took a hard lap, legs burning, cold air scraping the back of my throat.
The puck felt wrong on my tape tonight, too light, too skittish, and I slapped one off the boards just to feel the vibration rattle up my arms. Up in the stands, she was sitting in my team's colors, watching my warm-ups, and I couldn't decide if that made me want to play the best game of my life or lose my fucking mind.
Both. Definitely both.
During the anthem, Way fished something out of his pocket.
Small, metallic, worn smooth from handling.
He turned it over between his fingers without looking at it, like his hands knew the shape by heart.
I’d never asked what it was. After three years, I’d noticed Way never called home after games.
Never FaceTimed anyone while the rest of us were riding the high.
Just pocketed whatever it was, toweled off, and slipped out.
Next to her, Kimmy bounced around in full Loveland U gear like she'd chugged five Red Bulls. That girl was committed to the charade, I'd give her that.
We were really doing this fake dating thing.
And you're already losing your mind over it.
The arena buzzed. This was my domain, the one place where the noise in my head went quiet. But tonight, the rink wasn't doing its job.
I flubbed a pass to Way during drills and he gave me a look that said seriously? Every time I glanced toward the stands, she was tracking my movements, and the word mine ripped through me. Completely fucking deranged considering none of this was real.
Get your head in the game, asshole.
The opposing team's center—a guy built like a freight train—caught my eye during the faceoff and smirked. He'd been gunning for me since last season, probably figured taking down a Coulter in front of scouts would look real good on his highlight reel.
Bring it on, dickhead.
When I got to my position, I looked up one more time. She gave me a little nod. Nothing special, but my shoulders dropped half an inch and my grip on the stick loosened.
Ridiculous.
The game started and I dragged my head back in it—mostly.
Way fed me a pass at the blue line and I one-timed it.
Slap shot, top shelf, the puck hitting the back of the net with that sound, that sweet thwack of rubber on twine.
The red light spun and the horn blew and the boards rattled as the crowd went nuts.
My teammates mobbed me, helmets crashing together, gloves slapping my back, but all I wanted was to look for her reaction.
Focus, dumbass. Scouts are watching.
I didn't look, channeled the celebration energy into the next play instead, but Christ, it took effort.
The opposing team came back harder after that, targeting me with checks that were legal but brutal.
Their winger caught me along the boards and my shoulder crunched into the glass hard enough to rattle my teeth.
I gave as good as I got, dropping their defenseman with a clean hit at center ice.
His ass hit the surface and slid, and the crowd roared.
The adrenaline felt good, familiar, like the first shift of a game when everything clicks.
I spent five minutes in the penalty box for fighting—totally worth it after their left wing tried to board Ryder.
I dropped onto the bench, chest heaving, knuckles throbbing where they'd connected with his visor, and pressed my split hand flat against the cold metal seat.
From behind the plexiglass, I could see Lena clearly.
Her hands were clenched in her lap whenever Notre Dame got close to our goal, and when they scored to tie it up, she flinched—actually flinched, like she'd taken the hit herself.
Was she actually worried, or just playing her part?
The question ate at me more than it should have.
Don't read into it. She's a good actress.
The third period was a bloodbath. Both teams were getting chippy, and the refs were letting a lot slide. I took an elbow to the ribs that would leave a bruise for weeks, but managed to set up the winning goal with thirty seconds left on the clock.
We won, obviously. The crowd lost their shit, and I skated off knowing the hard part was coming next.
The kiss.
The one that would sell this whole thing to everyone watching.
But if I was being honest, Matt was the last thing on my mind right now.
My jersey stuck to my back with sweat, my pulse was still jacked from the game, and in about thirty seconds I was going to have my mouth on Lena's in front of scouts and a thousand camera phones.
Lena was beaming when I got to her, and for a second I forgot this was all an act. She looked proud, happy, like she actually—
Don't go there. It's fake, remember?
But damn if she didn't look good standing there, cheeks flushed from the cold, bouncing on her toes like she'd actually enjoyed watching me play.
I pulled off my helmet, sweat dripping down my neck and soaking the collar of my jersey, and headed straight for her.
The boards separated the ice from the stands and I shouldered through the gate, skate guards crunching on the rubber matting, legs unsteady and not from the game.
My ribs ached from that elbow and my knuckles were split from the fight, and none of it mattered because she was ten feet away and closing.
Kimmy was losing her mind next to her, screaming and waving a foam finger like we'd won the Stanley Cup. But Lena was still, her eyes locked on me as I crossed the distance between us. The arena noise went to static.
Time for the fake boyfriend performance of my life.
I pulled her close without thinking, and her gasp got swallowed by the crowd noise.
Being six-four had its advantages, and the skates only made it worse.
She had to tilt her whole head back to look at me.
My hands were on her before my brain caught up with what they were doing, traitorous fucking hands, moving of their own accord, cupping her face like they had every right to be there.
Her coconut shampoo cut through all the arena stench, sweat, rubber, that weird zamboni chemical smell, and her body slotted against mine like she'd been standing in that exact spot her whole life.
Which is the problem.
"Good game, Coulter."
I smirked, which was impressive considering I'd forgotten how to breathe. "You almost sound like you mean that."
"I do. You were good out there. Did you have to spend so much time in the sin bin though?"
"Sin bin? Look at you learning hockey talk."
She shrugged, and I caught the faint blush creeping up her neck. "Part of the show."
"Careful, Hartwell. You keep talking hockey to me and I’m going to start thinking you actually like being here."
Her gaze narrowed. "Don’t flatter yourself, Coulter."
"Too late."
Right. The show. And there it was—the bucket of ice water I needed.
"Okay then. Time for that kiss, Lena."
She swallowed hard, and I saw her eyes drop to my mouth. My whole body went tight.
"Right," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the crowd.
I leaned in, hands on her waist. My thumbs found the strip of bare skin above her jeans where her sweater had ridden up, and my brain just—shorted out.
Everything—the cheers, the music, the whole arena losing its mind—went muffled, like someone had shoved my head underwater.
All I could hear was her breath catching.
All I could feel was her pulse hammering under my thumbs.
Her lips hit mine and the floor dropped out from under me.
What. The. Fuck.