Chapter 12
Chapter twelve
Colby
“You’re late, Hayes.”
“I’m early,” I say, hopping the boards. “You just missed me.”
Dex skates past me backward like he’s auditioning for a figure-skating gala, sticks his face inches from mine, and grins. “Captain’s got jokes. That’s how you know he stood way too close to a woman on stage and didn’t hate it.”
A chorus of oooohs sings across the ice.
I don’t even slow my stride. “Good morning to you too, Miller.”
“Don’t ‘good morning’ me,” Dex says. “You don’t get to good morning me after you let twenty thousand people watch you stand there all calm and competent while a hot woman chose you on stage like it was the season finale of a dating show. And then you had a date with her.”
“Of course she chose me. I was the best option.”
“OMG,” Mason groans, pushing off into a glide that’s way too graceful for a defenseman. “He’s doing the semantic defense. This is serious.”
Gregory appears on my blind side like a horror movie villain with good edges. “Was there tongue?”
“That’s classified,” I say. “And you don’t have clearance.”
They all freeze.
Dex’s grin goes sharp. “So,” he says slowly, “that’s a yes.”
“That’s not what I said.”
Mason nods like he’s piecing together a crime scene. “Which means something happened.”
Gregory hums thoughtfully. “Or something almost happened.”
I look at all of them. “You sound like a group of girls in a high school bathroom, and I’m not answering any of you.”
Coach blows his whistle hard enough to make all of us flinch. “If you idiots put half this energy into the forecheck, we’d be undefeated.”
Dex points his stick at the bench like he’s presenting evidence. “Coach, you heard him. There was a kiss.”
Coach’s stare could curdle milk. “Miller, if you keep narrating imaginary romances, I’m making you skate laps until your grandchildren retire.”
We scatter like guilty children.
Practice starts, and for the first ten minutes, it’s pure routine. Warmup laps. Tight turns. Stops and starts. Coach barking “faster” like that’s a full sentence. We run edge-work and quick-feet drills that make my thighs burn in the way that reminds me I’m still alive.
Dex, of course, can’t keep his mouth shut even while he’s skating suicides.
“Captain,” he calls, panting dramatically as he touches the line. “Did she…”
Coach’s whistle shrieks.
Dex stops mid-sentence and actually looks afraid.
“Did she what?” Coach says.
Dex swallows. “Did she… enjoy the… charitable event?”
Coach narrows his eyes. “You’re on thin ice.”
“Technically we’re all on thin ice,” Gregory says.
Coach points at him. “Mills, don’t encourage him.”
Mason skates up beside me during a water break and bumps my shoulder. “Okay. Real question.”
“Here we go,” I mutter.
He leans in, voice low like we’re discussing state secrets. “Does she know you’re the captain?”
“I think that part was obvious.”
Mason squints. “Yeah, but does she know what that means?”
“Enlighten me,” I say.
Dex calls from the circle, “It means he’s emotionally unavailable, allergic to drama, and will absolutely leave a party early.”
Coach claps his hands. “Alright, toddlers. Line up. Passing drill. And if any of you send a no-look backhand pass into traffic like you’re trying to impress your imaginary girlfriends, I’m benching you next game.”
Dex raises a hand. “What if my girlfriend is very real and very supportive?”
Coach doesn’t even look at him. “Then she deserves better.”
Laughter ripples through the line.
We go into a high-tempo passing drill… quick touch, quick move, head up. I call out names, keep the line organized, keep the pace. It’s automatic. I like structure. I like systems. That’s why being captain works. You keep the noise inside the rails.
Except today the noise has a name.
And my team is allergic to not saying it.
Dex comes flying through the drill and chirps as he passes. “So what’s her name again, Captain, Sloane? Or are we sticking with ‘that woman from the game show’?”
“Yes, Sloane, but for you, ‘none of your business,’” I say.
“Oooh,” Mason says. “He’s protective.”
“I’m not protective.”
Gregory, skating past, adds, “That sounded protective.”
Coach blows his whistle again. “If I hear one more syllable that isn’t ‘puck,’ ‘pass,’ or ‘shoot,’ I’m making you all do bunny hops.”
Dex looks offended. “Bunny hops are humiliating.”
Coach’s voice goes deadpan. “Exactly.”
We reset.
I push through the next set harder than I need to, mostly because the ice is the only place where things make sense. You show up, you work, you get better. You don’t overthink the parts that don’t belong in a locker room.
Like the way a woman’s attention can feel quiet and steady instead of loud and demanding.
Like the way I feel something stupidly warm when I picture her standing there, chin lifted, taking it all in and handling the circus.
Dex skates by again and sings, “Captain’s glowwwiiing.”
“I am not glowing.”
“You’re glowing,” Mason says. “You look like a man who slept well.”
Coach skates past us, arms crossed. “If you slept well, you’re skating like crap. Pick one.”
“I’m skating fine,” I say.
Coach points at my feet. “Your left edge is lazy.”
Dex snorts. “That’s what she said.”
The entire rink goes silent.
Coach slowly turns his head. “Miller.”
Dex lifts both hands. “I’m sorry. It was there. The joke was there.”
Coach doesn’t blink. “Bunny hops. Everyone.”
“Coach!” Mason protests.
Coach’s gaze sweeps over us. “You are all guilty by association.”
We do bunny hops across half the rink like a pack of overgrown toddlers in skates, and the humiliation is so intense it circles back around into funny. I let it crack me just enough.
Dex sees it and lights up like Christmas. “HE’S SMILING. HE’S DOWN BAD.”
Coach blows the whistle again. “Miller, skate.”
Dex takes off with dramatic suffering. “This is oppression!”
“Pass,” Coach yells.
We pass.
Ten minutes later, Gregory tries again, because Gregory has the curiosity of a cat and the subtlety of a surgeon. “So, is she famous or just stage-adjacent famous?”
“She’s a music manager,” I say, because there’s no point hiding it. They saw her. Half of Nashville saw her.
That earns me another full stop.
Dex’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh. So she’s smart.”
“Yup.”
“And hot,” Mason adds, because Mason has never once stopped to think before speaking.
I shrug. “Objectively.”
Dex clutches his chest. “He said ‘objectively’ like he’s writing a scientific paper about his own feelings.”
“I don’t have feelings,” I say.
Gregory smirks. “That’s not what your face says.”
Coach skids to a stop in front of us. Snow sprays.
He points his stick at each of us like we’re in court. “Are we talking about hockey or are we planning a double date?”
“Yes,” Dex says immediately.
Coach’s eyes narrow. “I swear to God, you play like toddlers when the captain gets laid.”
“I did not… ” I start.
Coach points his whistle at me. “Don’t finish that sentence.”
Laughter ripples through the line again.
Coach blows once. “Scrimmage. Blue versus white. And if you play like you’re texting your girlfriends instead of skating, I’ll make you all run stairs until you forget how to speak.”
“Captain doesn’t text,” Dex says loudly as he takes his position. “He sends polite emails.”
I stare at him.
He smiles sweetly. “Best regards.”
“Puck,” Coach barks.
We drop into the scrimmage. It’s fast, messy in the best way. I call switches. I direct traffic. I take a hard pass from Mason and snap it to the net. Our goalie blocks it clean, and the rebound shoots to the corner.
Dex races me for it like his life depends on it.
We get there at the same time. He leans in as we battle along the boards.
I chip the puck past him and take off.
Coach is already yelling. “HAYES. BACKCHECK.”
“I AM,” I shout.
“FASTER.”
We cycle. We battle. We score. We chirp. It’s hockey, chaos contained in rules.
For a few shifts, they let it go.
Then Mason catches me on the bench as I take a drink of water.
“You like her.”
It’s not a question.
I swallow and set the bottle down. “Yeah, kind of.”
That’s it.
The bench goes dead quiet.
Dex blinks like his brain is buffering. “Oh.”
Gregory nods his head. “Huh.”
Mason smiles slowly. “Okay then.”
That’s when it changes.
Now they’re not teasing.
Now they’re curious.
“Alright,” Dex says. “So this is the part where we stop chirping and accidentally start rooting for you. I hate it.”
Mason snorts. “Yeah, when Hayes stops deflecting, you know he likes a girl."
Gregory nods once. “Noted.”
They’re ridiculous.
But they’re mine.
And something about the idea of her seeing this, seeing me here in the middle of all of it, doesn’t feel like a risk.
It feels… right.
“I think she's coming to the game tonight,” I say.
“WE HAVE TO BE NORMAL.” Gabriel chimes in.
“WE WON'T BE NORMAL. BUT WE HAVE TO WIN.” Mason demands.
Dex slams his stick on the ice. “I will be on my best behavior.”
“No, you won’t,” Mason says.
Gregory nods solemnly. “Statistically impossible.”
Dex looks personally offended. “I can be classy.”
When practice finally ends, we’re drenched in sweat and chirping anyway, because none of us know how to shut up.
Dex follows me into the tunnel. “Okay, Captain. Serious question. Is she… like… nice?”
I glance at him. “Why?”
He looks suddenly shy, which is horrifying. “Because if she’s not nice, I need to emotionally prepare.”
Mason appears on my other side. “Also, does she have friends?”
Gregory drifts behind us like a ghost. “Single ones?”
I push the door to the locker room and the noise hits like it always does: music, laughter, tape ripping, and a bunch of guys arguing about nothing.
I sit, untie my skates, and let the familiar noise settle around me.
I’m not embarrassed.
I’m not defensive.
Liking someone isn’t a weakness.
It’s information.
And the information is simple.
I like Sloane.
I don’t know what she wants. I don’t know what she’ll allow herself.
But she’s coming tonight.
And that’s enough for now.
***
Later, when game night rolls around, my body falls into routine like it always does. Pre-game meal. Tape the stick. Talk through assignments. The same jokes. The same nerves.
Only this time, there’s a new thing sitting quietly under my ribs.
Not pressure.
Curiosity.
Warmups start. The crowd filters in. Music thumps through the arena. Lights sweep the stands.
Dex skates past me and tries to mouth something.
I glare.
He mimes zipping his mouth again and points upward, eyes wide.
I follow his gaze without thinking.
And there she is.
Not flashy. Just… there. Watching. Taking it all in like she’s collecting data.
She doesn’t look nervous.
She doesn’t look impressed.
She looks focused.
Like she belongs anywhere she chooses to stand.
She meets my eyes.
And suddenly, the noise fades.
This doesn’t feel like a moment.
It feels like something I want to pay closer attention to.