"So," Logan said, leaning across the aisle with the intensity of someone about to share classified information. "Let me tell you about everyone on this bus."
For the next hour, Logan provided a running commentary on every player, delivered with surgical sarcastic precision that made me bite my lip to keep from laughing too obviously. He described the sophomore line as "three golden retrievers who share one brain cell and it's usually lost." The defensive pair in front of us were apparently "hockey robots programmed for violence and protein shakes." The backup goalie was "nice kid, decent saves, hair gel budget bigger than his actual budget."
I shouldn't have been entertained. I should have shut this down as unprofessional. Instead, I found myself addingmy own observations, pointing out technical inefficiencies I'd noticed during practice, skating deficiencies that could be improved.
Nolan leaned in, his attention shifting from opponent stats to our conversation. "You noticed Johnson's edge work is compromised?"
"His left skate's been giving him trouble for weeks," I said. "He's compensating with his right side, which is throwing off his balance during tight turns."
"Huh." Nolan looked impressed. "Coach hasn't mentioned anything."
"Coach is focused on strategy. I'm focused on biomechanics. Different lens."
"Smart," Nolan said, and something in his tone made my stomach flutter in a way that was definitely not professional.
For the next two hours, we fell into easy conversation that felt less like work and more like friendship. The three of them challenged my assessments, asked detailed questions about technical adjustments, actually listened to my responses instead of just waiting for their turn to talk.
Logan questioned my evaluation of opponent goalie weaknesses with the kind of intellectual sparring that made my brain light up. Nolan explained strategic plays with tactical detail that revealed deep intelligence beneath his captain persona. Blake said little, but his presence beside me felt solid and comfortable, and he kept adjusting his position to make sure I had enough room even though the seat was clearly too small for his frame.
By the time we arrived at the opponent's arena, I'd almost forgotten I was supposed to maintain professional distance.
Then I caught some of the other players looking at us—speculative glances, interested stares, some edging toward crude—and remembered that living with three of the team's stars probably looked like something other than "professional development opportunity."
Great. Now I had to worry about team gossip on top of everything else.
During the game, I positioned myself behind the bench where I could observe without interfering with Coach Williams's authority. Over the past few weeks, I'd developed a system of subtle hand signals with the players for real-time technical adjustments.
The system worked brilliantly. The players responded to my corrections with immediate understanding, making micro-adjustments that improved their performance without disrupting Coach's game strategy.
The game was intense, physical, and competitive in a way that made my heart race with vicarious adrenaline. I watched Logan make save after impossible save, his body moving with athletic grace that legitimately caught my breath. Watched Nolan command the ice with strategic precision, always three plays ahead of the opponent. Watched Blake use his size to protect his teammates, enforcing boundaries with physical dominance tempered by surprising restraint.
I was so focused on the game that when the brutal hit happened, my brain took a full second to process what I was seeing.
Blake went into the boards with force that made the entire arena gasp. His body crumpled. He didn't get up.
My professional composure evaporated instantly. I vaulted over the bench before anyone could stop me—before I even consciously decided to move. My shoes somehow found purchase on the ice as I ran toward Blake's motionless form, my heart hammering in my throat, my training taking over even as my brain screamed that he wasn't moving. He wasn't moving! Why wasn't he moving?
I dropped to my knees beside him, my hands immediately going to his neck to check for stability. "Don't move him!" I screamed at the approaching medical staff. "Cervical precautions! Check for concussion! Someone get the backboard!"
I sounded like a drill sergeant. I sounded unhinged. I didn't care.
Blake's eyes fluttered open, unfocused, and landed on my face inches from his. He tried to smile, winced, and I realized I was still holding his face between my hands with a tenderness that had nothing to do with medical assessment.
"Hey," he mumbled, his words slightly slurred. "You're pretty."
"You're concussed," I said, my voice shaking. "Don't talk."
"Worth it," he whispered.
The medical team took over, but I refused to move far, tracking Blake's responses with professional precision layered over personal concern that I couldn't quite hide. They went through the concussion protocol—checking his pupils, testinghis coordination, asking orientation questions he answered slowly but correctly.
When they helped Blake off the ice to cheers from both crowds, I followed, completely ignoring the thousands of spectators who'd definitely just watched me break protocol to rush to an injured player's side.
Professional distance? Never heard of her.
In the medical room, while the team doctor conducted his assessment, Logan appeared in the doorway. He was still wearing his goalie pads, having apparently abandoned his post the moment he could.
"Is he okay?" Logan's voice was tight with worry.
