Evan watched the play develop—head up, jaw set, reading it like a diagram only he could see.
The winger didn't slow down, and I didn't think. I moved.
Two strides. One wide-angle stick check.
I snagged the puck with the toe of my blade, chipped it loose, and spun into a no-look dish back to Evan, who'd pivoted perfectly to catch it.
He didn't break stride. Three strides. Quick wrister. Net.
Goal horn—okay, it was a guy with an airhorn on the bench, but still.
I coasted to a stop near the boards, chest heaving. Evan turned, gazing from behind his mask. It was small and subtle, but he nodded.
Once.
And fuck, my toes tingled.
I skated back to the bench, lungs burning. Hog smacked me on the helmet as I passed.
"That deke was filth. Proud of you, Vegas."
Pickle yelled, "That's our legend!" and banged the boards with his stick.
I tried to play it cool. Dropped into my seat and unsnapped my gloves, but inside? I knew I'd been seen.
Not for the meme or my life mess.
For the hockey move in a lightning-fast moment.
And across the ice, Evan Carter—Mr. Label Maker, Lord of Passive-Aggressive Silences—was watching me again.
The locker room always smelled worse after a scrimmage—a combination of burned rubber, stale sweat, and damp socks.
Most of the guys peeled off fast. Someone shouted about beers at The Drop. Pickle tried to start a group chant, and Hog threatened to bring banana bread as a penalty.
I stayed behind. My shoulder needed ice, and I needed to breathe.
Evan was still at his stall. Suited down now, hoodie zipped, hair damp and dark at the temples. He wiped down his stick, slow and methodical, one square inch at a time.
I watched from the other side of the room.
He hadn't said anything about the pass or the goal. He nodded, and he didn't correct me either. Progress.
I started to stand, then paused.
He glanced up. Our eyes met. Held.
That look—fuck. He could read a whole person in three seconds flat. No blink. No mercy.
There was something new. Curiosity?
I responded with a half smile. He didn't return it, but he saw it.
Eventually, he stood, tucked his gear into a black duffel, and slung it over one shoulder. Before leaving, he hesitated by the whiteboard, where someone had scrawled STORM vs. STORM in marker and drawn a crude stick figure with glittery hair labeled "Vegas MVP."
Evan didn't laugh, but he wiped the glitter hair off the board with his sleeve, leaving the line clean, and kept walking.
I stood there for a beat longer, helmet still in my hands. As I headed out, I passed the fridge in the trainers' lounge. I spotted a note taped to the door.
