Something in my chest settled. Steadied. The panic that'd been clawing at my ribs all day retreated just enough that I could breathe properly again. My heart still raced, but differently now. Not fear.
Something worse.
I hated it immediately.
Stop it.
I pressed my forehead against my knees, closing my eyes against the sight of him skating another drill with that precise, devastating control.
He's older. By what—fifteen years? More?
He's technically your boss. Or close enough.
He's not interested. Not in you. Not in anyone, probably.
You don't get to have crushes. You don't get to feel safe around men just because they happen to be competent at sports.
This is stupid and dangerous, and you know better.
But when I opened my eyes again, my gaze found him anyway.
Tracking his movement across the ice. The way he corrected a player's form with just a gesture. The quiet authority he carried without ever raising his voice.
The way my pulse skipped every time he moved.
I was so screwed.
The cold seeped deeper, but I didn't move. Couldn't make myself leave when sitting here—watching him, watching the team, existing in this frozen cathedral of echoing space—felt like the first calm I'd had since Marsha knocked on my door.
Even if that calm came wrapped in feelings I absolutely could not afford to have.
Just a few more minutes.
Then, back to work. Back to reality. Back to pretending you're fine.
But right now?—
Right now I let myself watch him skate, and pretended the warmth spreading through my chest meant nothing at all.
Chapter 10
Rhys
"Ackerman, you want Maddox on first line or second?"
"First." I didn't look up from the clipboard. "Hudson anchors second with Parker."
"Got it."
The whiteboard in front of me showed our power play setup—lines I'd redrawn three times already because something felt off about the spacing. I erased the left wing position again, repositioned it.
Better.
Maybe.
"Rhys—do we have enough tape in the supply room?"
"Check the cabinet. Bottom shelf."
