Page 26 of The Off Limits Captain
I glide to the boards and stop hard enough to mist ice against the kickplate.
“You’re punctual.”
“You wrote six.”
“Most reporters interpret that as six-fifteen.”
“Most hockey players think a grunt counts as an answer.”
I fight a smile.
I point with my stick to the bench. “Sit there. Do not step on the ice.”
Peyton looks down at the rubber mat, then back at me. “I do know what ice is.”
“I know. I’m saying you don’t know what my ice is.”
She hears me.
Her chin lifts half an inch. She sits on the bench, notebook balanced on one knee, pen in hand. Close enough that I can see the faint pink in her cheeks from the cold. Close enough that the rink no longer feels empty.
I’ve made that mistake before.
Noticing her here, on my ice, is the second.
I turn away and skate.
I do not perform. I run the routine I would run without her there. Edges. Stops. Tight turns. Puck control through cones. Release from bad angles. The work beneath the version people cheer for.
After ten minutes, Peyton stops writing.
I catch it.
Her pen goes still.
That matters more than the notes.
I collect a puck at the blue line and snap it bar down before looking over.
“Problem?”
“You favor the left leg when you accelerate out of the turn.”
I stare at her.
She taps her pen against the notebook. “The shin.”
“You’re a trainer now?”
“No. Just nosy with decent eyesight.”
“That can get you in trouble.”
“So can pretending not to be hurt.”
The rink goes still around us.
I skate to the bench, stopping close enough that she has to tilt her head back to hold my eyes. Sweat starts at my collar despite the cold. Her gaze flicks there before she can stop it.
