Nathan skates past and shoulders me lightly. “Clearly,” he deadpans. “That’s why you’ve been a miserable bastard all week.”
I swallow hard, guilt coiling tight in my stomach. Jesus. Can’t even look at the guy without feeling like I’m about to crack. Every time I do, it hits me just how much I fucked up.
Because he has no idea.
No idea that while he was out drinking with the team that night, I had his sister on my lap, her hands tangled in my jersey, and her body shuddering under my hands.
No idea that I kissed her.
No idea that I still fucking want her.
And now? I’m avoiding her like the plague, like somehow, I can erase that night and just pretend it didn’t happen.
I shake off the thought and push harder, my legs burning as I tear down the ice, trying to outskate my own brain. Focus. Block it out.
But it’s impossible.
Because I feel it. Clear as fucking day.
I don’t even have to look up to know she’s there, standing at the edge of the rink, clipboard in hand.
I can’t look. I won’t. Even though every instinct is screaming at me to turn my head, to acknowledge her.
Instead, I lock in on the puck. On the guys. On literally anything but her.
Doesn’t matter. Her voice still cuts through the noise of the rink, sharp and clear.
“You’re hesitating in transitions.” Cool. Professional. Like nothing happened between us. “It’s throwing off the plays. You’re also pulling back on faceoffs instead of attacking.”
My jaw ticks, grip tightening on my stick until my knuckles go white.
Coach’s voice yanks me out of my own head. “Ryan, is your shoulder still bothering you?”
I don’t flinch. Don’t blink. Don’t give him an inch. I’m so fucking tired of this conversation. “No.”
Coach’s stare is a full-body check. “Don’t lie to me.”
I exhale hard through my nose, my whole body coiled with frustration. “I’m fine.”
There’s a beat of silence, then Isabella’s voice cuts through again.
“You’re compensating,” she says.
I feel her eyes on me, even though I refuse to meet them.
“You’re holding back in contact drills,” she says, voice calm but laced with something else. Concern, maybe? “Because it hurts.”
My fingers flex around my stick.
I hate that she noticed. That she sees right through my bullshit. That she knows me well enough to know when I’m lying.
“I’ll deal with it,” I mutter, my voice rough, the words scraping their way out of my throat through clenched teeth.
“You don’t have to,” she says, softer.
And like an idiot, I look at her.
One split second. That’s all it takes.
