Page 5 of The Risk Taker

That grin hits before I can stop it. I swivel toward him, smirk loaded. “Is that jealousy I hear?”

His glare sharpens. Which, of course, just eggs me on.

I take a step closer, keeping my eyes locked on his. “Next time, if you want to see my dick, just say that.”

The room erupts into laughter. Nathan, though? He doesn’t crack. Just stares me down with that flat, unamused look of his. “I’m good. Thanks,” he says, voice clipped.

I toss him a wink, dropping the too-small jersey back on the bench. “Let me know if you change your mind.”

I head toward the showers to find my real gear.

Behind me, he shakes his head and places the helmet on his head, his cheeks a little pinker than before. Not that anyone else notices.

But I do.

I always do.

And I know it shouldn’t make me grin all the way to the showers… but it does.

2

NATHAN

Most people sleep in on Sunday mornings.

I don’t have that luxury.

There’s no snooze button, no lazy scrolling, no lying in bed while the rest of the world stays quiet. Just the hum of the rink lights overhead, the cold air burning my lungs, and the steady rhythm of pucks smacking against my pads.

My legs ache, my jersey is soaked through and clinging to my chest, and my gloves feel like they’ve gained ten pounds each.

Dad’s behind the net, with his stick in hand, rolling another puck into position, keeping his eyes locked on mine.

“Nice save,” he says as the puck thuds off my left pad and slides into the corner. “But don’t get lazy with the rebound. Stay on it. You know what happens if you give Logan a second shot.”

I suck in a slow breath and push myself back into a stance as my knees scream at me.

“He celebrates like he just won the Cup?” I say dryly.

Dad smirks. “Exactly. And none of us need that.”

He flicks the next puck toward me, faster this time, and I catch it in my glove, the snap echoing through the empty rink.

I flash it to him. “Better?”

“Much.” He bends to collect a few more. “You’re quick today. Confident. I like it.”

Something eases in my shoulders. I don’t say anything, but I meet his gaze a little longer than usual before I settle back into position.

We fall back into rhythm as soon as the puck drops. I track it, kick it away.

Another comes. Stick save. Glove. Drop, block, reset. Over and over.

My thighs burn. Sweat drips down the inside of my mask, stinging my eyes. The air in here’s freezing, but it feels like I’m on fire. Every time I drop into the butterfly, my knees scream, and by the time I push back up, my lungs are already begging for a break.

Dad skates toward me. “Alright,” he says, his breath puffing in the cold air. “That’s enough for today.” He glances down at my legs. “If I push you any harder, your legs are gonna give out before breakfast.”

I huff a laugh and drop to one knee, tipping my mask up and gulping in air that burns my throat. “Pretty sure they already did,” I say, trying to catch my breath.