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Chapter Twenty-Four

Michele

I tuck my freshly stocked med kit beneath the bench before slipping into the narrow strip of shadow behind the boards. The cold air coming off the ice bites at my cheeks as I inch closer. The rink hums with sound as kids from the Big Brothers Big Sisters program move around like sugar-fueled cannonballs, the players’ skates carving across ice, pucks clattering against the boards, and shouted plays bouncing off the rafters. Everything feels crisp and alive. A shiver races down my spine as I press my palms to the Plexiglass.

I scan the ice, searching for one player in particular as they warm up for a friendly game. Thankfully, I manage to find him quickly. Number ten, Cole Hendrix. We’ve spent almost every night together since our late-night rendezvous in the training room. I thought it would have changed things between us, taken the edge off the need to be near him, but if anything, it’s made it worse.

Now, on the ice, he is something else entirely. That quiet intensity is still there, but more controlled and contained than before. My eyes track his movements as he skates backward through the neutral zone, knees bent, stick loose in his hands. Not lazy—never lazy. More lethal than anything, as he silently tracks the play. It's like he’s reading a piece of sheet music only he could hear, his movements smooth and certain, every glide loaded with quiet purpose.

God, he is beautiful. Not just physically, though watching him glide across the ice isn’t a hardship on my part, but he just exists. Completely in his element. Cole moves confidently as he cuts toward the boards with a single flick of his blade, pivoting off his inside edge to intercept the puck from a player who barely notices him coming.

The boards thrum under my fingertips as I press my palms flat against the cool glass. I want—no, need to see him up close and in his element. I kissed him goodbye at my condo door only a few hours ago, but the minute I stepped into the arena, I had to see him. I know he is busy doing his own work, skating the way he was born to do, but it doesn’t matter. I only want to catch a glimpse, and then I can head back to the training room to prepare for the physical evaluations coming this week.

“Uncle Cooper says hustle wins games,” a teenage boy says, before dropping onto the bench beside me with grace far beyond his years. “But that guy’s just vibing out there.”

I jump slightly, startled by the company beside me. “Uncle Cooper?”

The boy turns, smiling brightly at me. “Yup. His fiancée is my auntie Ramona.”

I vaguely remember something about Ramona having a son, but I could be wrong. I’ve only seen her in passing, but she is freaking gorgeous.

“Right…” My voice trails off as I try to see if I can place the boy, but I’m complete crap when it comes to putting names with faces.

His untamable curly hair sits on top of his head, pointing in every direction. The freshly cut side is tapered down almost to the skin. He has on a green Timberwolves hoodie with the team's wolf logo on it, with a thin black jacket over top.

“You have no idea who I am, do you?”

“Not a clue. I do know who Ramona and Cooper are, although I don’t know them personally.”

“Meh, they're not bad, but the person you really want to know is me.” He winks, holding his hand out in my direction. “The name is Darius King.”

“Nice to meet you, Darius.” I grip his hand tightly in mine, shaking it firmly. “I’m Michele.”

I giggle, feeling horrible that I have no idea who this kiddo is. “But I hate to break it to you, but your uncle Cooper is wrong. “Cole’s not cruising. He’s calculating.”

“Looks like he’s floating to me.” Darius stares at Cole like he hung the moon, barely able to remain in his seat as he watches Cole glide across the ice.

“Floating like a shark,” I whisper, knowing exactly how the kid feels. Maybe I can get Cole to take a picture with him or something before the end of the event.

And it is true. He prowls the ice with narrow eyes, timing his breath with each push before he explodes forward. One, two, three strides, each faster than the last, slicing through the zone like it owes him something. He dances past a defender with a toe drag so slick it draws whistles, then drops his shoulder and releases a wrist shot—the puck sings against the crossbar and disappears into the net.

The small crowd in the arena roars, Darius and I jumping to our feet, hands above our heads in celebration. Cole turns back toward center ice, the ghost of a smile brushing his mouth as he touches her lower lip. That mouth was pressed to mine a few hours before, whispering my name like it was a promise as Cole curled his body around me. And now, he is?—

What the fuck is he doing here? All the Timberwolves players on the ice drift closer to Cole, forming what seems to be a protective shield between him and the player emerging from the tunnel. A current of unease and wariness fills the arena as Jensen steps onto the ice with no helmet or gear, just a hoodie, slouched shoulders, and cocky swagger.

“Uh…who’s that dude?” Darius squints, no doubt picking up on the change in everyone’s demeanor.

I don’t know how to answer his question. A guy my dad kicked off the team for being an asshole? Some rookie that couldn’t hack it? A rookie that Cole beat to a bloody pulp for saying something bad about me? There is no right way to answer this question, especially when it's an impressionable teenage boy asking, so I shrug my shoulders.

Thankfully, this is an acceptable answer for him as I watch Cole, his entire body stiff, his skates planted in place, but his entire frame is coiled like he is waiting to strike.

“Stay put,” I whisper, but he doesn’t listen. Cole pushes off, slowly at first, crossing the blue line without breaking eye contact with Jensen in challenge. They meet at center ice, close enough to brush shoulders, sticks tapping the surface absently. It’s like two predators pretending to be at ease—but everything in Cole is vibrating. I can see it in the angle of his jaw and the way his grip on his stick shifted. I can’t hear a damn thing they're saying, but I don’t need to. My eyes narrow as Jensen smirks, gesturing in my direction.

This is not good. Not good at all.

Cole doesn’t move, not even bothering to turn and check to see if I am okay, but his body goes rigid, his weight shifting forward as if he’s ready to strike. And then Jensen says something low, just for Cole to hear. Jensen doesn’t move as Cole’s grip tightens around his stick even further, his chest rising and falling as he breathes heavily. Every muscle in his body seems to lock in place, like he’s trying not to destroy something.

For one terrifying second, I think he’s going to swing at him, giving Jensen exactly what he wants. I push to my feet, moving toward the ice entrance, my pulse thrashing in my ears. The need to get to him, to stop him from doing something he’ll regret, is strong, but I stop the minute he skates backward, the fury still simmering beneath his skin.

Another player must have alerted security as they move as one, speaking to Jensen. A few moments later, security escorts him out, while Jenson wears a grin like he scored a goal. Cole’s eyes follow him all the way off the ice before he disappears back down the tunnel, and the drills resume.

The drills resume, but the weight in my chest doesn’t disappear. My eyes lock on him as he drifts toward the boards, eyes blank and cold. His every motion is crisp and completely composed, but not his emotions.

“Is he okay?”

My hand hovers near my radio, eyes still on Cole. “No, he’s not.”

And God, I want to fix it. I want to run onto the ice and fold myself against him. Want to make him laugh again, like he did in her kitchen last night when they made pancakes at midnight and ended up half-naked on the countertop. But for now, she can’t do anything but watch and wait, hoping that whatever Jensen said hasn’t sank its claws in too deep.