It went high and wide, missing the net entirely.
“Again,” Kincaid called, already sending another puck.
This one I caught cleanly, but I aimed too carefully and it went straight into the goalie’s chest—if there had been a goalie.
“Stop thinking,” Kincaid said. “Just shoot.”
Easier said than done when every mistake felt like confirmation that I’d forgotten how to do this, that Antoine had been right about me all along.
But I tried. Puck after puck, shot after shot, and gradually something started to shift. My shoulders loosened. My hands found the right grip. The hesitation that had been plaguing me for months started to fade, replaced by muscle memory that predated all of this.
I scored. Then scored again. Then three more in a row that would have beaten any goalie in the league.
“There it is,” Kincaid said, and there was something in his voice that made me look over at him. “That’s what I’ve been waiting to see.”
My insides did something without permission at the approval in his tone, but I pushed it down. Professional. This was professional feedback from a coach to a player.
“Let’s work on your release,” he continued, skating over with more pucks. “You’re telegraphing slightly before you shoot. If you can eliminate that tell, you’ll be unstoppable.”
We spent the next hour drilling my shot from every angle, every position, until my arms were burning and my ribs were screaming and I’d put probably two hundred pucks on net. Kincaid was relentless but patient, correcting small things—the angle of my blade, the timing of my weight transfer, the follow-through on my release.
And through it all, he never once made it feel like anything other than coaching. Never stood too close, never let his handlinger when he adjusted my grip on the stick, never looked at me like I was anything other than a player he was trying to improve.
Which was exactly what I’d told myself I wanted. Professional distance. Appropriate boundaries. No complications.
So why did it feel like something was being carved out of me with every perfectly neutral interaction?
By the time we finished, it was almost nine, and the rest of the staff would be arriving soon. I was exhausted in the best way—the kind of tired that came from working hard at something that mattered.
“Good session,” Kincaid said as we made our way off the ice. “Same time tomorrow?”
“Yeah. Absolutely.”
“Get some food, get some rest. The ribs might be sore later.”
“Will do, Coach.”
He nodded and headed toward his office, and I made my way back to the locker room feeling both better and worse than I had two hours ago. Better because I’d skated well, because my shot was coming back, because Kincaid clearly thought I was improving. Worse because every minute of that session had reinforced exactly where we stood with each other.
Coach and player. Nothing more.
I showered, changed, and headed home through mid-morning traffic. My phone buzzed with a text from Max asking how training went, and I sent back a thumbs-up because I didn’t have the energy for more detailed explanation.
When my ride pulled up to my building, I sat for maybe a moment too long, staring at the concrete wall and trying to convince myself that this was fine. That I was fine. That I could handle seeing Kincaid every day, working with him, taking his coaching, and not wanting things I couldn’t have.
My phone buzzed as I got out. This time it was Nicky:Odin says you’re neighbors now? Small world.
I stared at that message, then typed back:Yeah. He moved into the apartment across from mine.
The response was immediate:That’s crazy! He’s a good guy though.
I locked my phone and headed for the elevator, trying not to think about the fact that my brother was actively encouraging me to spend time with a man who’d just asked me out while I was still hung up on someone else.
The elevator doors opened on my floor, and of course—because the universe had decided I hadn’t suffered enough today—Odin was in the hallway. He was carrying groceries, struggling slightly with the bags as he tried to get his key in the lock.
“Hey,” I said, because ignoring him would have been rude. “Need help?”
He looked up, and his face broke into that easy smile. “Dante. Yeah, actually, if you don’t mind. These bags are heavier than they looked at the store.”
