Chapter 15
Billie
I stayed on my knees in the crease for a heartbeat longer, catching my breath through the burn in my lungs. The ice hissed under my blades when I stood. My legs felt like they belonged to someone else—shaking, heavy, but alive in that way that made every bruise worth it.
We’d done it. Again.
I skated toward the bench, helmet half-off, hair plastered to my forehead.
Calder was there—arms folded, expression unreadable.
But his eyes were bright, alive in the same rough way the rest of us were.
The clipboard hung loose in his hand. He reached out without looking directly at me, gloved fist raised in a silent cue.
I tapped mine against it before I could think. A quick, solid bump. He turned to the next player, keeping the rhythm moving down the line.
Still, it felt like it landed harder on me.
The girls piled on in the hallway—laughter bouncing off the concrete, shrieking about that last play.
“You see that cage rattle?” Reese yelled over the chaos. “Thought the damn bolts were coming loose!”
“Pure luck,” I shot back, grinning so wide my face ached. “Next time it’s going in.”
Kira shoved me with her shoulder. “Next time you assist me, hero.”
We laughed, clattering through the tunnel in full gear, high on speed and sweat and the kind of teamwork you can’t fake.
In the locker room, the music hit—someone’s speaker blasting an unofficial anthem while skates and helmets scattered across the floor.
I stripped off my gloves, flexed my stiff fingers, and leaned back against the cool metal of my stall.
The noise blurred around me until it turned into static.
All I could feel was the pulse under my skin, the hum of still-moving blood and effort.
That last play kept replaying behind my eyes—the stretch pass from Kira, the spin through the neutral zone, the crowd rising when I wound up.
The puck had kissed iron instead of net, but I’d felt the vibration shoot through my stick into my ribs.
The sound of it—sharp, hungry—still echoed inside me.
Calder had stayed behind on the bench when the final horn blew.
I’d caught one glimpse when I turned back, expecting the usual scowl, maybe a curt nod.
Instead, he’d been watching us through the surge of chaos, jaw tight but corners of his mouth threatening a smile.
Then that measured fist bump, simple and quick.
Hardly anything. But it burned through the padded air between us like a secret.
Now, as the team whooped around me, I let the noise fill the room and closed my eyes. Victory had its own silence inside it—heavy and warm and mine.
Steam hung heavy in the air, curling from showers someone had drowned the stalls with. Pads thudded against metal benches. Voices ricocheted off tile and cement, layered into one still-buzzing noise that couldn’t let go of the game.
Kira perched on a bench, one leg shaking like she’d mainlined espresso. “The Pour House, ten o’clock. Don’t flake.” Her hair dripped onto her phone as she typed furiously, thumbs moving like blades.
Across the aisle, Reese had turned into a self-appointed bouncer, collecting wallets and IDs in a helmet. “Anyone under twenty-one, hand it over. I know fakes when I see ‘em. I’ll make sure we sit near the back.”
The speaker she’d hijacked from the trainer’s office thudded out bass that made locker doors rattle. Somebody tossed tape rolls into the trash in rhythm with it.
I peeled off my chest protector; the strap sticking stubbornly against sweat. The air felt cooler against my skin, the first calm breath after the noise. But the calm didn’t last—every sound clawed its way back in. Laughter. Plans. The words Pour House over and over.
Kira spotted me digging through my duffel. “You’re not changing clothes already.”
“Yeah, I am.”
“Donovan, don’t even start.” She pointed the spray of her hairbrush at me like a weapon. “You’re coming. You owe me a drink for that assist.”
Reese nodded, helmet full of contraband IDs balanced on her knee. “One drink. You earned it. Even Coach looked—” she cut herself off, smirk flashing. “—uh, impressed.”
My smile twitched, died quick. I folded my elbow pad, suddenly fascinated by Velcro. “Can’t. I’ve got a midterm Monday.”
Groans circled the room.
“You’re such a nerd,” Kira shot back. “Who studies on a Saturday after a win?”
I tried for a laugh. “Me. Someone’s got to keep the team GPA decent.”
Reese dragged out the words like taffy. “Come on, just one drink. You can quiz us on anatomy while we toast.”
I kept packing, each motion slower than needed. “Do you know what anatomy even is?” I asked. “Go celebrate.”
It wasn’t false—the team deserved to glow tonight. But the truth stuck somewhere deeper. I could study later. I just didn’t want to be around people. Not around him. Not near the look that had flickered across the bench after the game like electricity hunting ground.
Kira slung her duffel over her shoulder and aimed a slow squint at me. “Fine. But if you change your mind, text. We’ll save you a barstool and Reese’s bad dancing.”
Reese blew me a kiss. “Don’t wait up. They actually pay me to keep DJing once people realize I can’t shoot whiskey but I can spin it.”
Laughter trailed them out, echoing in layers down the concrete hallway until the door swung shut.
The speaker sputtered into silence. Drops from the showerheads kept time against tile. I sat there awhile, half-dressed, the smell of ice and sweat fading to cleaner air, the victory hum finally quiet enough for me to hear my own heartbeat.
The hallway outside the locker room felt hollow after everyone left.
Fluorescent lights hummed above me, steady and too bright.
My skates dangled from their laces around my neck, dripping faint meltwater on the concrete.
The echo of laughter had faded down the tunnel, leaving only the faint scrape of a mop somewhere in the distance and the steady rhythm of my heartbeat.
I pressed my back against the cinder-block wall and let out a slow breath. My muscles still burned, the good kind of ache. For a moment, I almost wanted it quiet forever. Then footsteps cut through the stillness — heavier, slower, purposeful.
Calder.
He walked in, head down, clipboard tucked under one arm, doing what he always did after practice—a final sweep, making sure gear wasn’t left, lights were off, the rink locked down.
He looked up when he reached the threshold.
His gaze caught on me like it always did—brief, sharp, quick to move on.
He nodded once and passed, his boots squeaking on damp floor.
I thought that was it.
Then his steps stopped. The silence changed weight.
“You did good today,” he said without turning around.
The words hung there, almost invisible under how soft they were. Praise wasn’t his language. My stomach flipped before my brain caught up.
“Thanks.” I tried to sound casual, anyone-would-say-that casual, but it came out too hushed.
He turned halfway toward me, eyes darker than the dull corridor light. “Your shot’s still weak.”
The flicker of warmth inside me snapped shut. I straightened. “Wow, you’re great at compliments.”
The corner of his mouth didn’t lift, but something twitched there—a small, almost-smile or maybe just restraint. He stepped closer, into the fringe of light spilling from the locker room doorway.
“Your body positioning’s off,” he said. “You’re using your arms. You need to use your core.”
“That all?” I asked, forcing a smirk that felt thin.
He set the clipboard on a bench and mimed holding a stick. “When you pull back, your shoulders do the work. Watch—your posture collapses before contact. You’re wasting power. You need everything driving through your center.”
His tone wasn’t condescending, just matter-of-fact. The coach version of him. The safe one.
Still, my pulse wouldn’t settle. Maybe it was the way his focus sharpened when he demonstrated, eyes locked on the air between us as if the invisible puck meant survival. Maybe it was how his sleeves strained when he drew the motion again, slow this time, deliberate.
I rolled my shoulders, copying him without thinking. The move felt mechanical, unnatural under his inspection.
“Better,” he muttered. No smile. No nod. Just one word that somehow landed heavier than any compliment I’d ever been given.
“Grab your skates,” he said.
No hesitation. Just command.
I blinked, halfway to hanging my gear to dry. “Now?”
His eyes lifted, unreadable. “You want to fix that shot, don’t you? Gloves too.”
The challenge in his voice made it sound less like an order and more like a dare. The air between us shifted again—thicker now, humming. I shoved my foot back into my skate, tightened laces with sharp jerks, grabbed my gloves, and followed him out onto the quiet rink.
The place looked bigger without the team on it.
Empty bleachers, boards still damp from the Zamboni.
Our reflections moved across the ice like we were the only two people alive.
He didn’t say another word as he dropped a stick across the faceoff dot and bent to collect a handful of pucks from a bucket near the bench.
The sound of them hitting the ice—sharp plastic on frozen glass—echoed through my chest.
“Set up there,” he called, pointing toward the high slot.
My blades scratched the ice as I glided into position. The fluorescent lights pulled a blue sheen from the ice. My breath came out white. He finished lining up the shots, stood behind the net, arms crossed like a statue at a battlefield he already owned.
“Go ahead.”
I pulled in a breath, set my stance, and fired. The puck skidded wide, bouncing off the boards with a hollow thud. Another shot—too high. Third—caught the post.
He didn’t flinch. “Again.”