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“Oh wow,” Garrett breathes behind me as he takes it all in.

The Vipers’ equipment managers are the best. And this room just proves it.

I locate my skates before asking Garrett what size he is.

“Uh…I’m not sure about this,” he says nervously as I pull a pair off the rack.

“Don’t worry, these are all old ones used as spares. You’re not about to wear Monroe’s or anything.”

“Okay, that makes me feel a little bit better.”

Even still, when I hand them to him, he hesitates.

“Don’t even try to tell me that you can’t skate. I watched you at the friends-and-family event. And you told me the other day that you used to play.”

I see the cogs turn in his head as he casts his mind back to that conversation.

“That’s why we’re here? Because I told you I used to play?”

“I’m dying to see what skills you’re hiding under that nerdy exterior.” I hand him a helmet, then a stick, and he takes both, holding them like he’s done it a million times before.

He narrows his eyes at me, but he doesn’t fight when I grab his hand and tug him toward the ice.

“It’s freaky in here at night. It’s so…silent.”

“It’s the best time to skate. No one is here; no one is watching. There’s nothing like it.”

We sit side by side on the bench and lace up our skates.

“Come on then,” I say as I get to my feet and pull my helmet on.

Garrett does the same, and I can’t help but slide my cell from my pocket and take a photo of him.

“Hey,” he complains, although it’s with a smile. “If there are going to be photos, you need to be in them too.”

This time, he pulls out his cell, and we take a selfie.

It’s fucking weird looking at ourselves on the screen. Or more so, looking at myself. I’m smiling, and I genuinely look happy. I can’t remember the last time I looked at myself and saw that.

“Come on then. I want to see what you’ve really got,” I say, grabbing my stick and racing onto the ice, aware that he’s hot on my tail.

The second I’m back on the ice, the rest of my worries float away. The rink has always been my haven. Even knowing that Dad would have something to say about my performance, even if it was just training, the second my skates touched the ice and I could glide around weightlessly, everything became easier, lighter.

“What position did you play?” I ask over my shoulder before stopping at center ice.

“Winger.”

My smirk breaks through.

“Perfect,” I taunt, skating closer and staring down into his eyes. “You think you can score, baby?”

He barks out a laugh. “Against you? One of the best D-men in the NHL? Not a fucking chance.”

“Wanna try anyway?”

“Hell, yeah. We both know I’m going to score tonight one way or another.”

“We’ll see,” I tease before dropping a puck and taking off with it before Garrett has even realized something’s happened.