Page 55 of Pucking Forbidden

“You seem fine without it.”

“Eh,” he shrugs. “Skating alone is fine, but it’s always more fun when you’ve got someone with you.”

I nod. “Can’t disagree with that. I’ll just get my skates on so I can alleviate your boredom.”

He laughs. “Appreciate it.”

Sitting on the team’s bench, I quickly lace up my skates before slipping out onto the ice to join Theo, who’s already back on it, skating figure eights while he waits for me.

“What are you doing here now, anyway?” I ask as I reach him and we stop next to each other in the middle of the rink. “You guys had practice earlier today, didn’t you?”

“I’ve been coming in early and staying late,” he explains after a minute. “Just trying to work on a few things and sharpen my skills. The guys on this team are the best of the best, after all. I’ve got to be on top of my game if I want to fit in.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Gotta keep up somehow.” He drags a hand back through his hair, a little breathless from skating. “Everyone’s already got their rhythm, you know? Systems, timing. I’m still catching up.”

“You don’t seem like you’re struggling,” I point out.

“That’s because I’m faking it well.” He winks at me. Then, after a beat, “Wilder’s been a big inspiration for me, especially because he plays the same position I do. If I can be half as good a player as he is, that would be amazing.”

At the mention of Julian’s name, my heart starts to race, and I feel all my blood rush to my face. Theo locks onto it in an instant.

“Oh, that’s interesting.”

I frown. “What?”

“That,” he declares, pointing at me. “That look.”

“I don’t have a look,” I insist, even as I feel my face growing hotter.

He laughs. “You absolutely have a look. The second I mentioned Wilder’s name, your entire face did a thing.”

“I don’t,” I repeat, crossing my arms and dropping my gaze from his, hoping he doesn’t read the embarrassment in my gaze.

“Hadley, come on! You just did it again.”

“I didn’t do anything!” I insist, even as a sudden, traitorous heat begins to creep up my neck.

“Mm,” he hums, clearly unconvinced. He’s a hockey player; reading people’s shifts in weight and momentum is literally his job, and right now, he's reading me like an open book. “You got all…” he gestures vaguely toward my face, “...flustered. Oh man. Don't tell me the coach’s granddaughter has a crush on a player.”

Oh, my God. This is so humiliating. “I’m not flustered.”

“You definitely are.” He sounds almost gleeful. He leans forward, his tone dropping into a mock-conspiratorial whisper. “Girl, you are in so much trouble. Do you know what Coach would do to Wilder if he found out?”

I roll my eyes, turning my attention back to the ice. “It’s not like that.”

He snorts. “Uh-huh. Right.”

“It’s not what you think,” I insist, but it comes out thinner this time, like I don’t fully buy it myself.

He raises a brow, staring at me expectantly with his arms folded

I hold out for a second, then exhale in defeat. “Even if it was…it doesn’t matter.”

“Why not?”

I hesitate, picking at a loose thread on the sleeve of my sweater. “It’s complicated.”