Jane
I didn’t really believe it would become routine. Not at first. After everything—the camping trip, the shelter, the raw moment in his room with his father barking threats through the walls—I thought maybe he’d change his mind. Or maybe I would.
But Monday came, and he was leaning against the rink wall with his arms crossed, smirking like he hadn’t nearly broken down in front of me.
“Tutoring,” he reminded me, voice low enough the other guys wouldn’t hear.
I bristled immediately, mumbling that I remembered. He didn’t look sorry. Didn’t look grateful. Just amused. And that annoyed me more than anything.
We practiced that morning as usual. Coach Gilbert’s drills were brutal - crossovers so tight they carved lines into the ice like scars, puck control circuits that left my shoulders b
