"It's nothing." That's what he thought, but when he pulled his glove away, a red streak was bright against his pale skin.
I tugged off my right glove and reached up without asking. I touched the edge of the cut with my thumb—just a graze, really, but it was bleeding steadily. Evan froze under my touch.
We were six inches apart. I saw flecks of gold in his gray eyes, and his breath made small clouds in the chilled air.
The arena noise faded—no more skate blades scraping ice, and no more shouted instructions from the bench: only Evan's face and the careful pressure of my thumb against his cheek.
"Jake."
He said my name quietly, testing its sound.
"Yeah?"
Before he could answer, Coach blew his whistle.
"You two gonna kiss, or can we run another drill?"
The spell broke. Evan stepped back, and I dropped my hand, flexing my fingers. The blood on my thumb was already drying, dark against my skin.
He added a perfunctory, "thanks," and skated away.
"No problem."
I returned to my position, clumsily pulling my glove back on. My thumb still tingled where I'd touched him.
The next drill started, but I couldn't concentrate. Evan's cheek blotted everything else out. I missed an easy pass and took a shot off my shin that would leave a bruise.
Worth it.
The locker room was thick with steam and the usual post-practice symphony—gear hitting the floor, and someone arguing with a skate lace that had betrayed him.
I sat at my stall, methodically unlacing my skates. Evan sat three feet away, doing the same thing. He worked with his usual precision. The cut on his cheek had stopped bleeding, leaving only a thin red line that made him look like he'd been in a fight instead of losing an argument with a deflected puck.
I pulled off my right skate and started on the left, stealing glances at him between tugs on the laces. Sweat plastered his hair in place, and there was a faint mark on his forehead where his helmet had sat. He looked tired but satisfied, as always after a solid practice.
"That puck had a vendetta, huh?"
Evan paused. "Could've been worse. Could've chipped a tooth."
I stared at him. Was that... was that Evan-level flirting? It sounded suspiciously like he was making conversation instead of merely tolerating my existence.
"True. And then you'd have to explain to your dentist that you got taken out by a piece of rubber moving at highway speeds."
"Occupational hazard." He finished with his skate and started peeling off his practice jersey. "Besides, teeth are replaceable. Cheekbones aren't."
Definitely flirting. Had to be. Evan Carter didn't make casual observations about his bone structure unless he had an agenda.
I tried to think of something clever to say back, but Hog's voice boomed across the room before I could form a coherent thought.
"Spreadsheet! How's the battle scar?"
"Healing."
"Good, because we can't have our prettiest defenseman looking like he went ten rounds with a cheese grater."
I snorted. "Prettiest? That's fighting words, Hog."
"You calling me a liar, Vegas?"
