He doesn’t answer. Just skates out of the crease, flips the puck at my stick like a silent try again, and skates back in like a dark omen.
Practice keeps going.
Dom lays a brutal hip check on Nate during a 2-on-2 drill.
Griffin, our rookie winger, tries to dangle through the middle and gets absolutely flattened by me because that’s my fucking house, and he forgot to knock. I don’t play soft, I don’t play stupid, and I don’t lose fights in the corners.
Except right now, my focus keeps dipping. Every pass, every block, every pivot, I’m there. But a part of me is still up in the bleachers, watching her watch me.
I need to get my head back in the game or I’m going to start making mistakes.
And in this league, mistakes get you benched. Or worse—replaced.
Practice ends with a final whistle and a collective groan from the team. Zed doesn’t even look winded.
Asshole.
I skate toward the bench, chest burning, thighs shot, adrenaline still jacked from trying to snipe a puck past that mutant of a goalie.
But just before I reach Coach and Dom, my eyes flick up to her once more. She’s pretending to be looking around for something, scratching her cheek—something I’ve noticed her do every time she tries to look distracted.
I swear to God, there’s something else there. This weird weight in my chest every time I look at her. Call it a sixth sense, call it delusion. But she’s too familiar.
My brain is spinning with every conversation I’ve had with Bunny over the past ten months. Every time she tilts her head or rolls her eyes or half-smiles at something… it feels like her.
Maybe I’m just projecting. Maybe I’m so obsessed I’m seeing Bunny in strangers now. But this girl doesn’t feel like a stranger.
I strip off my gloves and helmet, wiping sweat from my brow as I skate over to where Coach Bennett and Dom are already deep in conversation near the bench.
Coach is leaning against the boards, arms crossed, expression unreadable behind that permanent I’ve-seen-more-ice-than-Santa Claus face of his.
Gray at the temples, broad shoulders, still built like he could step onto the ice and wipe the floor with half the league.
That’s the thing about Coach Bennett—he’s not just some washed-up pro clinging to relevance. He’s a legend.
Three-time Stanley Cup champion.
Four-time Norris Trophy winner.
Ten All-Star appearances.
And when he finally said fuck it and stepped off the ice, it wasn’t because he couldn’t play anymore. It’s because he wanted to teach the next generation how to dominate.
Now he coaches like he played—ruthless, relentless, and with a glint in his eye like he’s always three steps ahead of the game.
Standing next to him is Captain Fucking America himself.
“Mercer’s fucking good,” Dom mutters, pulling his helmet off and raking a hand through his dark hair. One stubborn strand falls over his left eye like always as he scans the rink.
Dom looks like the kind of man who doesn’t lose arguments, games, or sleep.
And when he skates, it’s like the ice parts for him.
“No shit,” I reply, breathing hard. “Guy’s a fucking wall.”
“Told you he’s beast,” Coach Bennett throws, crossing his arms over his broad chest.
“Although, I’m starting to think the dude’s mute.” I take a swig from my water bottle, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “Which is why I had an idea.”
