Practice that afternoon crackled with a different kind of tension. The team was still riding the high (and bruises) from the scrimmage, but the undercurrent had shifted. Whispers followed me across the ice. Glances lingered a second too long. The bets were no longer quiet jokes—they were starting to feel like spotlights.
Caleb ran drills with merciless precision, voice sharp as he barked orders. But his eyes kept finding me. Every time I took a shot or battled for the puck, I felt that stormy grey gaze like a physical touch. He stayed close—closer than captaincy required—his body a constant shadow at my back during every drill.
“Jones! Edge work!” he called, skating beside me during a transition drill. His stick tapped mine once, a hidden signal. “Lower. You’re still favoring that right
