The hockey field was colder than usual that afternoon. The kind of cold that got into your bones and made your breath come out in short, sharp clouds. But Leo barely felt it. The air stung against his skin, the whistle kept blowing, and someone yelled his name from across the field—again—but all he could see was her.
Amara.
She was standing at the edge of the rink, clipboard in her hand, hair tied back in a loose ponytail that still somehow managed to look too perfect for someone pretending to be invisible. Her brows were drawn together in concentration as she scribbled something down, biting the end of her pen. He could almost see the little crease between her brows that always appeared when she was overthinking. God, he’d missed that face more than he should admit.
“Leo!” the coach’s
