Page 140

“He does,” I tell her, laughing as she waves both arms at him.

Rez pushes off again, but not before giving her one last nod. She watches him go with the satisfied expression of someone whose approval has just been officially recognized by the person who matters to her.

Aleks shakes his head. “You've created a monster.”

“I didn't create her,” I say. “I'm just enjoying the benefits.”

“That's what they all say.”

Lucy turns to him. “You could wear a Phoenix jersey.”

“I would rather skate into the boards headfirst.”

“Uncle Fancy wouldn't.”

“Uncle Fancy has questionable judgment.”

“He likes Aunt Anna,” Lucy says, as though that settles the argument.

The entire row erupts, and I cover my face with my hands as Lenzin starts laughing again.

I look back toward the ice, where Rez is taking his position for the first drop, and find myself smiling.

The puck drops.

I've watched Rez play on screens for weeks now, replaying moments from games he's already finished while I sit alone in whatever time zone I've landed in. I've learned his patterns, memorized how he moves, and told myself that's enough to bridge the distance between us.

It isn't.

Nothing compares to watching him live. The speed, the precision, the way he reads the ice and adjusts before anyone else realizes the opportunity exists—it all registers differently when I'm close enough to hear the scrape of his blades and the crack of his stick against the puck.

He moves like violence barely contained, but there's artistry beneath it. Control. Intelligence.

Lucy bounces beside me every time he touches the puck.

"Did you see that?"

"I did."

"He's so fast."

"He is."

"Faster than Lenzin?" I whisper to her.

Lenzin leans forward. "Excuse me?"

Lucy doesn't look away from the ice. "He’s offense, you’re defense. Of course he is."

Aleks chokes on his drink, and Sofie presses her lips together to keep from laughing.

I watch Rez accelerate into the neutral zone, his stick controlling the puck like it's tethered to him.

God, he's beautiful.

Rez lines up beside Gabe, his best friend and Chicago's number 68 defenseman. They exchange a look —nothing elaborate, just recognition. Gabe shifts position slightly, and Rez adjusts his angle in response. They don't need words. Years of playing together mean they already know where the other will be.

Jax takes the faceoff. He wins it clean, sending the puck back to Gabe, who moves it to Lincoln before the Riptides' forecheck can pressure him. Hayes calls for it along the boards, and Lincoln feeds him the pass.