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I raise an eyebrow and then nod. I might as well get this over with.
He rubs the back of his neck. “I wanted to apologize.”
“To me?”
He lets out a short laugh, shaking his head. “I owe Thompson an apology. What I said wasn’t fair.”
Confusion settles inside me. “Then why are you talking to me?”
“Because I said some dumb shit.” He shrugs. “And because I don’t want you thinking I’m that guy. I feel awful about this whole thing.”
“Okay.”
Silence settles between us, but I don’t hurry to fill it.
His lips turn down. “That’s all what you have to say?”
“What else is there?”
He chuckles, his eyes darting away and his cheeks turning pink. “I don’t know. Most people usually have a response.”
“I’m not most people.” I lift my chin. “I appreciate that you want to apologize to Michael, but I’m not interested.”
He studies me for a second, then nods. “Okay. I guess…that’s it.” He steps out of my way. “For what it’s worth, Thompson is a lucky guy.” He takes another step back. “See you.”
Only when he’s halfway across the lot do I unlock my car and slide inside. As I settle into my seat, realization sets in, and a smile blooms on my face. While I was polite, I wasn’t exactly nice. I set boundaries, and the world didn’t stop rotating.
It feels good.
After I leave Coach Gonzalez’s office, I stop in the middle of the hall, frowning. I should be on my way to the dance studio, but the sounds of the blades scraping the ice, the pucks hitting the boards, and whistles make me pause.
It’s been so long since I saw Michael on the ice, and my curiosity keeps growing. I can stay a bit longer and still make it to dance on time.
So, I head to the glass. Instantly, my attention is drawn to Michael. Just the sight of him in his jersey with number 17 on his back makes my heart flutter the way it always used to.
He veers to the side, passing the first defenseman. He doesn’t rush it, doesn’t force anything. Then, as he cuts toward the net, he shifts his weight, and, with a lift of his stick, he releases the puck. It flies into the top corner, whizzing right past Diego’s head.
“Yes,” I whisper, throwing a fist in the air.
As Coach blows a whistle and the team resets, Diego adjusts his mask, shaking his head like he’s frustrated by how easily Michael got the biscuit past him. He better get used to it. Michael is just that good.
He wins another face off and rushes toward the net, Asher by his side. The defenseman picks up his pace, trying to close the gap, but Michael slows a little, faking him out, making him second guess himself. I smile, warmth rekindling in my abdomen. He’s always been really good at getting into his opponents’ heads.
Diego is locked on Michael, determined to stop any shot he makes.
I bite my bottom lip and hold my breath, watching Michael’s every move. He angles in, stickhandling, then slows again, dragging the moment out, messing with Diego on purpose. He wants him to make a mistake.
And, oh boy, he does.
Diego drops. It’s too early—even I know that. Michael easily sends the puck into the net again. The sound rings out across the rink, followed by a slew of curses from Diego as he slaps his stick against the post.
For years, people have compared Michael to Uncle Colton, equating him to his dad’s shadow. That’s never been the case for me. He’s incredible in his own way. Watching him now, I’m even more certain he has a great future ahead of him. One day, his name will be in the Hall of Fame alongside his dad’s.
Like he can sense me, he looks my way, his eyes meeting mine across the rink. He pushes his helmet up, as if he isn’t sure it’s really me. I wave at him, the back of my neck heating. I expect a wave in return, maybe a quick nod. Instead, he motions to the door in the boards, then pushes off and skates toward it.
By the time I step to the door and meet him here, my heart is ready to escape my chest. Dammit.
“Hey,” I murmur.
