Page 65 of Hockey Nanny

He hadn’t stopped talking since the bus left the hotel. Jokes without punchlines. Observations that went nowhere. He shifted, bounced once, rolled his shoulders, then did it again. Big game nerves, sure. Tampa always made us earn every inch. Still, the edge of it crawled under my pads.

Mine wasn’t just the opponent. I felt off. Like I’d left something back in Vegas on a weight bench that still smelled too much like Carissa. Reads came a beat late in practice. My feet didn’t want to commit when a hit opened up. In front of the net, my reactions dragged as if I were moving through sludge. Not the headspace you want walking into Florida with a series on the line.

Boone jabbed the butt end of his stick into my ribs. “I don’t know what to do about her.”

I kept my eyes forward. Dawson’s shoulders tightened at his brother’s mention, a small tell that might as well have been aflare. He was way more than just ‘into’ Carissa, but he’d be hard pressed to admit it. My indulgence was underlined by curiosity that burned hotter than Dawson’s, full stop. Now that I had skin in the game, so to speak.

“What are you talking about?”

Boone looked toward Dawson and tipped his chin, then pointed a finger at himself. “She’s clearly into us both.”

Dawson pivoted then, eyes like cold, hard steel. “Can we save the pillow talk for later? We’ve got a game to win.”

Boone ignored him, as Boone always did when he decided something mattered. “Usually I don’t overthink this stuff. This time I am. She’s smart, and she sees through all the bullshit. I can’t just flirt my way into it.”

“Boone,” Dawson warned.

But Boone barreled on. “I need more than my natural charm. I need a plan. A real plan.”

I kept my mouth shut and my face blank, clamping down on everything that wanted to spill. It was no use telling them about what happened between Carissa and me when I was still processing. Timing saved me. The arena swelled, chants rolling through the concrete, the signal that the ice was ready and so were they. Dawson shook his head, and went back to his mark, leading the way as the line surged forward.

Focus snapped back into place, at least enough to step onto the ice. Whatever knots I was carrying stayed with me, tucked under my chest protector, waiting for the next whistle.

The opening minutes went sideways fast.

The first rush came at us hard, Tampa cutting through the neutral zone before we’d even found a rhythm. I chased the play a step behind where I should’ve been, reaching instead ofclosing, my stick late to the lane. Dawson peeled back to cover, skates biting into the ice as he tracked the puck carrier, Boone scrambling to recover his side.

I circled back, lungs already burning, irritation snapping at my heels. Another shift, another amateur scramble. I missed a lane change at the blue line and Tampa poured through again, forcing Dawson to take the body while I drifted into space that should’ve been sealed.

The whistle cut through the noise.

Dawson coasted straight at me. “Get it together. You’re floating like a fucking schoolboy.”

I started to answer, but thought better of it. There wasn’t a defense that wouldn’t sound like a lame excuse.

We lined up again, blades carving shallow arcs as we reset. I lifted my head without meaning to and found the stands.

Carissa sat a few rows up, Henry beside her, both of them on their feet. The kid had his arms raised, face lit up, yelling my name with a confidence I hadn’t earned yet. He bounced once, nearly losing his balance, then steadied himself with a fist in Carissa’s jacket.

The sight hit harder than any check could’ve.

I’d spent my whole life proving something to people who never bothered to look twice. And here I was, half a world away from that kid I used to be, skating like I’d forgotten why it mattered.

Dawson glided back into my space, clearly not done. “You want to keep gifting them entries, or—?”

“We’re screwing this up,” Boone cut in, stick tapping the ice once to pull us tight. “I overcommitted on that last rush, left the wall open. Dawson chased the puck instead of holdingthe middle. And you,” his gaze flicked to me, “aren’t finishing checks.”

We formed a loose huddle, three bodies close enough that our shoulders bumped as we argued about whose fault it was, breath and frustration tangling. Some guys skated past, amused, waiting for us to implode.

I lifted my glove and pointed to the stands. Henry caught the motion and waved like crazy.

Dawson followed my line of sight, tension draining from his posture as he took it in. He dragged a hand down his face and let out a long sigh that spoke of seasons and scars and responsibility he never shrugged off.

“Told you,” Boone said under his breath. “She’ll keep getting in our heads and messing with us until we decide—”

“We’re not deciding anything,” Dawson said, voice firm, final. “Right now, we’re thinking about winning this game. Everything else is on ice until that’s done.”

I nodded. Boone did too.