Everything with him feels like pushing too hard on a bruise just to see if it still hurts.
I step onto the ice and skate toward him, letting the cold hit my lungs, trying to settle something that doesn’t want to settle. The rink is quiet this early, boards still, stands empty, lights humming overhead. It feels separate from everything else.
Like the kind of place where something could happen and then disappear before anyone else ever knew it existed.
Dangerous thought.
Bad thought.
Naturally, I keep having it.
Jamie passes me a puck without a word. I take it and we start moving.
At first it’s just hockey.
Thank god.
Hockey I can do. Hockey is clean. Puck, stick, ice, body. Read, react, adjust. Jamie sets the drill and I follow because I’m trying—really actively trying—not to be a dick, and because he’s annoyingly, consistently right about what works. We run shooting sequences, then two-man rushes, then passing drills tight enough that we have to read each other without speaking. It should be harder than it is, but it isn’t. That’s the weird part. With Jamie, on the ice like this, when we’re not trying to murder each other?
It just clicks.
Fast.
Too fast.
He cuts left and I know where to send it before he calls forit. I drop back and he fills the lane without looking. We move around each other like we’ve done this for years instead of a handful of mornings and one very confusing dinner.
I hate how good it feels.
I love how good it feels.
“Again,” he says after I put one wide.
“Bossy.”
“Sloppy.”
“Flirting with me before seven is crazy, Captain.”
His head turns.
There it is.
That flush. High on his cheekbones. Tension visible in his jaw from how tight he has it shut. The look I've been learning the difference between — used to mean he was about to yell. Doesn't mean that now. Something I’m starting to understand and absolutely should not be enjoying this much.
“Skate,” he deflects.
I grin. “Yes, sir.”
I’ve gotten very good at pretending I’m unaffected by him. Fortunately, he’s not good at that. At all.
I send it his way and he misses the puck.
Jamie Nash—perfect captain, hyper-controlled, borderline obsessive freak—misses an easy pass because I saidyes, sir.
Oh, that’s fun.
He recovers immediately, unease pulled sharp across his face, chasing it down like he can erase it with speed. I follow, laughing under my breath. I think part of him likes that I push back. I think part of me likes that he keeps trying to hide it.
