37
Nate
Hockey has always been the place where everything else shuts up.
That’s the whole point of the sport. You step onto the ice and the world gets clean. Cold air, sharp steel, hard boards, and a black puck. The rules are written in speed and bruises, and they don't care about your personal life. You move, or you get moved. You pass, you shoot, you hit.
You do not think about girls. You definitely do not think about one specific blonde girl who slept in your T-shirt last night after leaving your bed—where you did *not* have sex with her because you were trying to be a decent man.
Now, your own restraint is haunting you like a Victorian ghost with impeccable timing.
Unfortunately, my brain has decided hockey is optional tonight.
By warmups, I know I’m screwed. I’m skating laps, helmet low, trying to focus on the edge of my blades, but my gaze keeps drifting toward the student section like it’s attached to a wire.
The arena is packed; Northwood versus Briarwick always is.
Rivalry game. Loud crowd. Scouts in the stands. My head should be locked in.
It is not. Because Hannah is supposed to be here. Not because she has to be—the fake dating is over. She isn't required to wear my jersey or stand there pretending she’s mine for public consumption. She owes me nothing. I know this so well it’s practically tattooed on the inside of my eyelids.
I still look for her.
Carter skates beside me and taps my shin pad. “You’re doing the searchlight thing.”
“Head turning. Eyes scanning. Emotionally pathetic beam of longing.”
“Try stretching instead of analyzing me.”
“I stretch emotionally, Nate. It’s my process.”
Carter follows my gaze toward the stands. “She coming?”
“Don’t know.”
Technically true. She texted *Good luck* this afternoon, but didn't mention coming.
She did, however, send a photo of Gerald sitting on my stolen shirt with the caption: *He says shared custody requires proof of residence.
* I’d laughed into my coffee like an idiot, then stared at the photo for ten minutes like a bigger one.
The whistle blows for final shots. I take a pass from Mason and snap the puck into the top corner. The sound of it hitting the net settles something in me. *That, I understand. Do it again.*
Then the student section erupts. I know before I look. I know her presence like weather.
Hannah walks in with Ella and Ava. She’s bundled in a cream sweater and a tan coat, her hair down. No Northwood jersey. No *my* jersey. My stomach drops, which is ridiculous. Smart. Correct. The deal is over. But it still hits me like a clean check.
Hannah finds a seat and looks down. Our eyes catch across the rink. Even through the glass and the crowd, I feel the pulse of it. She lifts her hand—not a wave, just a small acknowledgment. I lift my stick once.
Then someone sits down beside her. Ethan Cross.
The world goes quiet in a way it absolutely shouldn't during warmups. He slides into the row beside her, smiling like he belongs there. He says something, she turns, she smiles.
“Wilder!” Coach barks from the bench. “Stare at the crowd or play?”
I snap my head back. “Yes, sir.”
The first period is violent. Fast, hard, and desperate. Briarwick plays like they want to prove last year’s loss was a fluke. I love rivalry games normally, but tonight, I need one.
Ethan leans closer to say something to Hannah. I see it from the corner of my eye. I win the next faceoff so hard Carter nearly laughs. I skate until my lungs burn, shoving the frustration into every stride.
By the end of the first, we’re tied 1-1. In the locker room, Carter sits beside me. “You’re playing well and also visibly dying.”
“I’m not dying.”
“Mason asked if you needed electrolytes for your feelings.”
I stare at the whiteboard. “No jersey,” I mutter.
“You ended the fake dating, Nate. She probably thought wearing it would be confusing. And Cross sitting there... that's probably also confusing. You’re allowed to hate it, you just aren't allowed to act like an idiot.”
The second period is better. I assist on a goal and draw a penalty. Northwood goes up 3-1. I let myself look once. Hannah is clapping. Ethan is too. Then he reaches over and says something close to her ear. Not touching, but close enough to light a fire in my brain.
By the third, Briarwick is pulling within one. Two minutes left. Empty net. My line is out. The puck pops free along the boards. I hit their captain, Rhodes, clean and hard. The boards rattle. I chase the puck, legs screaming, and send it straight down the middle into the empty net.
Northwood wins 4-2.
The arena detonations. Mason hits me from behind. “WILDER, YOU BEAUTIFUL DISASTER.”
I laugh, the adrenaline roaring. I look up. Hannah is smiling at me. Ethan is beside her. And she is not wearing my jersey.
“Do you have to go to Theo’s?” Hannah’s text arrives while I’m peeling off my gear.
**Nate:** *No. You okay?*
**Hannah:** *Yes. I think I just want to talk. Your place? Talking only. Green.*
I skip the team victory celebration. Forty-five minutes later, I open my door to find her in that cream sweater, her cheeks flushed. I step aside, the familiar rhythm of our routine taking over as I lock the door after her.
We sit at the kitchen table, avoiding the couch and the ghosts that live there.
“You played really well,” she says, her fingers twisting her water bottle. “You looked mad out there.”
“I was playing.”
“You can do both. I’m learning you.”
The words leave me before I can stop them, and the room goes still. I clear my throat. “Were you playing angry because Ethan sat with us?” she asks.
“I’m not reasonably mad at him,” I admit, rubbing my jaw. “I just don’t know what to do with the distance.”
Hannah looks at the table. “I don’t either. It felt weird not wearing the jersey. I almost did, but... the rules.”
“That was smart,” I say, though it feels like a lie.
“It didn’t feel smart. It felt aftermath-weird.”
We talk about the game, about Mason’s scream, about Ella. For twenty minutes, it's safe. Then her knee brushes mine under the table. We both freeze.
“I didn't come here because Ethan was there,” she says, her eyes searching mine.
“I know. Because you’ve gotten pretty good at telling me what you want.”
Her breath catches. She blushes and looks away. “You can’t say things like that during ‘talking only’.”
“Technically, I can.”
“Morally, questionable.”
When it’s time for her to go, I drive her back in a silence that isn't heavy, just full. At the curb, she unbuckles but hesitates. She leans over—not to my cheek, but to the corner of my mouth. She stops just before touching, her breath warming my skin.
“Talking only,” she whispers, her eyes dark and teasing.
I breathe out a laugh that feels like a physical ache. “Yeah.”
She gets out and walks inside. I wait until her text arrives.
**Hannah:** *Inside. Still green. And I kept the shirt. No decisions tonight?*
**Nate:** *No decisions tonight. But not no forever.*
I drive away, the ghost of her almost-kiss burning. I told her I didn’t want to be the guy who complicates things. That was the coward’s version. The real sentence stayed behind my teeth: *I don't want to be just the guy who teaches you how to want someone else.*
And for the first time, I wonder what would happen if I stopped pretending that was enough.