Evan had just picked off a pass and started gliding backward with stupidly effortless grace. Controlled. Predictable. Perfect posture, even when hunting blood.
I coasted up beside him, dropped into a crouch, and flashed a grin. "Nice poke check, but your glare's stealing the show."
I expected a twitch. Maybe a reluctant smirk. Hell, even a rolled eye.
What I got was a stare that could have frozen Lake Superior in July.
"Skate," he snapped. "Don't talk."
Cold.
Not frosty or mildly annoyed.
Antarctic.
I almost tripped over my own blade.
He peeled off toward the boards. I watched his back for half a second longer than I should've, then turned just in time to catch a puck in the shin.
"Fuck—"
Coach blew his whistle. "Maybe if you stopped flirting and started forechecking, Riley!"
Swear to God, he almost said foreskin.
Laughter rippled across the bench. Pickle erotically stroked his stick. Hog yelled, "Let the boy dream!" and started slow-clapping like this was a romcom, not real life.
I skated back to my zone, breath tight in my chest, vision swimming a little. I hated that Evan's voice in my head—Skate, don't talk—was louder than the whistle.
And yeah, maybe I should've shut up. Maybe the chirp was too much. Perhaps everything I did was too much.
But what the hell else did I have?
I wasn't the guy with the plus-minus stats, silky passes, or the stoic jawline that made the team group chat go feral. I was the guy with a viral song and a reputation for kissing people on ice. If I didn't play the part, what was left?
Nothing.
All I'd have was a half-healed shoulder and a history of spectacularly public self-destruction.
I stole a glance down the line. Evan was sitting on the bench, breathing slowly and steadily, wiping his visor with the corner of his jersey. His hair was damp and flat from his helmet, and he looked like he hadn't smiled in years.
He was watching me, and his eyes were a little less frosty, maybe slightly disappointed. That was worse.
My legs were like rubbery udon noodles when practice ended, and my ego was roadkill.
I sat in the far corner of the locker room, towel around my neck, and gear half-off. The chatter buzzed on without me—Pickle reenacting my failed chirp, someone arguing about sauce passes, and Hog humming the "Puck Life" chorus like a hymn.
I leaned my head back against the wall and closed my eyes. A memory came back, baring its teeth.
We filmed the rose steal scene fromLove on Iceat some fake chalet in Banff, despite an on-air in-show claim we were still in Toronto. There were candles. Fog machines. A rink carved into the mountain backdrop like some Hallmark fever dream.
I wasn't supposed to do anything big. I'd already told the producers I was done—they'd eliminated the guy I liked two days earlier, and I didn't want to fake anything else.
They smiled and nodded and handed me a script anyway.
"Jake, babe, it's an important visual. A moment. We'll get a confessional from you later to explain the nuance."
They didn't get the nuance.
