She’s wearing jeans, some kind of flowy top that probably costs more than my gear bag, hair still pin-straight and perfect despite everything. She’s carrying a coffee cup and wearing an expression that says she’s here for a show and fully intends to enjoy it.
She doesn’t come onto the ice. Just leans against the boards near the bench, settles in, and watches. Like she’s got nothing better to do. Like disrupting my practice is just another Tuesday errand between foils and blowouts.
The team watches her watch.
I watch the team watch her watch.
And then I have thoughts.Inappropriatethoughts. Dammit.
Nobody moves.
“Did I say we were done?” My voice sounds wrong even to my own ears. Too tight. Too controlled. “Reset. Blue line. Go.”
They go, but the energy’s different now. Lighter, somehow. Less tension, more... amusement. Shep keeps glancing toward Gisele, waiting for permission to make a joke. Even Boone fights a smile.
The next drill goes marginally better. Then the next. Because if Franklin’s right—if this is what slipping looks like—I don’t get to let it happen. I push them harder, call out every mistake, refuse to let the presence of a woman leaning against the boards change anything about how I run my practice.
It changes everything.
I’m hyper-aware of her. Every time I turn my back on the boards, I can feel her gaze like a physical pressure against my spine.
She’s not doing anything. That’s the worst part. She’s just standing there, sipping her coffee, watching me lose grip on a practice that should be routine.
“Captain’s getting a little intense today,” Shep stage-whispers during a water break, loud enough for half the rink to hear. “You think it has something to do with his street-sitting adventure or the woman who dragged him off of it?”
“Sawyer.” I don’t turn around. “Bag skates. Now.”
“Worth it.”
He grabs his stick and starts skating laps while the rest of the team pretends they’re not laughing. I can feel my pulse in my temples, can feel the control I’ve built my entire life around slipping further with every passing second.
This is fine. This is manageable. I just need to get through practice, reestablish authority, and—
“You know,” Gisele’s voice cuts across the ice, casual and devastating, “for someone who insists nothing happened yesterday, you’re doing a really good impression of a man who’s pretending nothing happened yesterday.”
The team stops.
Shep stops skating.
I stop breathing. The only sound is the hum of the overhead lights and my heartbeat jackhammering in my ears.
“Excuse me?”
She pushes off the boards, arms crossed, that infuriating almost-smile playing at the corner of her mouth. “ The yelling. The punishment drills. The dictator vibe. You really think that reads ‘I’m fine’?”
“I’m running practice the way I always run practice when Coach Duff can’t be here.”
“You’re running from what happened.” There it is. The part I can’t outskate. She shrugs like she hasn’t just stripped me bare in front of my entire team. “Same thing you always do when things get too real. Tighten up, push harder, pretend control equals okay.”
The silence is absolute. Not even the ice-making equipment dares to make a sound.
Wolfe—who for all intents and purposes—is mute, doesn’t say a word. Go figure.
My jaw clenches so hard my teeth ache. I should shut this down. Should tell her this isn’t the time or place. Should reassert command and get back to the drill we were running before she walked in and detonated everything.
But she’s looking at me with those honey-brown eyes that have always seen too much, and I can’t think of a single response that doesn’t prove her point.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
