Chapter 14
Samantha
Three days after the parking garage, I caught myself framing Evan during a neutral-zone regroup drill, sweat bright at his temple under the overheads. My finger found the shutter before my brain objected. I deleted the frame immediately.
Across the rink, the forwards were running a cycle-and-screen drill, Brick at the point, barking corrections at the rookie wingers who kept drifting too high.
Kowalski was at the far end with two defensemen, running edge work, his stick tapping the ice every three seconds like a metronome.
Cross and Hendricks were paired up for one-on-one battles along the boards, shoulder-checking each other into the glass with the professional aggression of men who liked each other and expressed it through controlled violence.
Standard Thursday practice. The kind where reps stacked on reps and nothing dramatic happened, but the work got done.
Over the past two weeks, Evan and I had developed a gravitational pull disguised as professional proximity.
We had not kissed since the garage, and we had not talked about it either.
Brick, stretching beside Mack and Kowalski across the lane from me, flicked me a look over his shoulder.
“He’s skating better, you know.”
“Everyone’s skating better. It’s preseason conditioning.”
“Nope. It’s you.”
“Brick.”
“Just saying. The man skates like he’s got somewhere to be when you’re around. Make of that what you will.”
Before Brick could answer, Silas appeared beside the boards, hands in his pockets and his attention on me.
“Walk with me,” he said.
We walked down the corridor that connected the rink to the administrative wing. Silas’s pace was unhurried. His voice, when he finally used it, carried the cadence of someone who had thought about every word before saying it.
“The campaign metrics are excellent,” he said. “Engagement is up forty percent. The community event content performed better than anything we’ve produced in three years. Walsh is happy. Sponsorship is trending the right direction. You’ve done outstanding work.”
“But I’m noticing something,” he continued, “between you and McKinney. And I need to know it stays professional during the contract window.”
The warning was clean: a boundary from the man paid to keep the player and the campaign intact.
“I hear you,” I said.
“I’m not asking you to change anything about the work,” he said.
“The work is the best we’ve had. I’m asking you to be aware of the timing.
Evan’s contract talks are heating up. Sponsors are watching.
Sandra is fielding twice the media traffic, and Walsh doesn’t like surprises. If the optics get complicated…”
“They won’t.”
He studied me for a moment, the same cataloging look he had given me on the first day. Then he nodded.
“Good.” A beat. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re good for this team. I’d like to keep it that way.”
He walked away, leaving me inside a box with precise dimensions.
So I adjusted. Carefully.
Evan noticed within two days.
I knew because his skating tightened again.
On the second day, he skated past my position along the boards and slowed. Not enough for anyone else to notice. Just enough for me to feel the temperature of his attention.
“You’re different,” he said, voice low enough that the words did not travel.
“I’m working.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
I packed my gear when practice ended, nodded at Brick, waved at a rookie whose name I had finally learned, and walked out without looking back.
My phone buzzed halfway to the car.
Bella: You’re quiet today. What broke?
Me: Nothing broke. I’m being professional.
Bella: That’s the saddest sentence you’ve ever written.