Page 11

"Perfect. Now just angle your stick like—yeah, exactly like that," Ethan said, demonstrating a complicated-looking wrist motion that made the puck seem to dance at the end of his stick.

I watched through my viewfinder, forcing my focus onto the precise, fluid grace of his movements, the technical skill. It was a necessary distraction. Because it had been two days since the away game—two days since the dizzying high of the win had somehow combusted into something else entirely in that shadowed room. Two days since we had sex.

The aftermath had been thick with a strained, awkward silence that eventually yielded a clumsy truce: it was an accident. A fluke. We blamed the adrenaline, the sheer joy of the victory, maybe even the dangerous game of playing fake couple for so long. Whatever that impulsive moment was, it wasn't us. It couldn't be allowed to derail the arrangement.

So, we’d agreed—stiffly—to act like nothing had changed. Back to the contract. Back to our carefully defined roles.

Which was why, despite the hum of unresolved tension beneath the surface, I was here now. Taking Ethan up on his offer for better photo access meant standing on the actual ice near the players' bench, the cold a sharp, unwelcome contrast to the heat I was trying desperately to forget.

Practice was winding down, most players already heading for the showers, but Ethan remained, demonstrating puck-handling techniques to Reyes, seemingly unaffected. Or perhaps just performing better than I was.

I adjusted my camera settings, trying to capture the precise control in his movements. Hockey photography had begun to fascinate me in a way I hadn't expected.

Ethan glanced over, noticing my frustration as I reviewed yet another slightly blurred shot. He said something to Reyes, who nodded and skated away, before making his way over to me.

"Getting what you need?" he asked, his breath forming small clouds in the cold air.

I sighed, showing him the screen. "Not really. I can't seem to capture the speed and control simultaneously. It's either a blur of motion or a static pose that loses the dynamism."

Ethan studied the image, then looked up with an unexpected smile. "I could show you."

"Show me?"

"Here," he said, holding out his stick. "Sometimes understanding the mechanics helps you anticipate the moment."

I hesitated, hand hovering. Taking the stick meant proximity after two days of careful avoidance, a test of our fragile truce. But refusing felt riskier, acknowledging the very 'accident' we'd agreed to ignore. Don't make it weird , I told myself. I set my camera down and took the stick. Solid, heavier than expected.

"Your grip is all wrong," he said, moving to stand behind me. "Like this."

His hands covered mine, repositioning my fingers on the stick. An immediate jolt ran through me at the contact—his palms warm against the backs of my hands, his chest close enough to my back that I could feel his body heat.

"The key is in the wrist," he continued, his voice low near my ear as he guided my hands through a gentle motion. "It's not about strength—it's finesse and timing."

I was suddenly having trouble focusing on his words, hyperaware of his proximity, the slight brush of his breath against my hair, the way his hands completely enveloped mine. My own hands trembled slightly.

"You're shivering," he noted, misunderstanding. "It's colder on the ice than it looks, isn't it?"

"I'm fine," I managed, though cold was definitely not my problem at the moment.

He chuckled softly, the sound vibrating against my back. "Maybe you should stick to shooting hockey rather than playing it."

Something about his gentle teasing broke through my flustered state, igniting my competitive streak. "Oh yeah? I'd like to see you try operating my camera. It's not just pointing and clicking, you know."

He raised an eyebrow, accepting the challenge. "Is that right? I think I could figure it out."

"Please," I scoffed, warming to our banter. "You'd probably drop my precious camera trying to balance it with those hockey mitts you call hands."

"Hockey mitts?" he repeated, looking down at his hands with mock offense. "I'll have you know these are precision instruments."

"For stick handling, maybe. But my camera requires delicacy." I was fully engaged in our back-and-forth now. "You'd probably crush the shutter button and break the whole mechanism."

"Now you're just underestimating me," he said, stepping closer. "I have hidden talents, you know."

"Like what? The ability to make your hockey pads smell worse than anyone else's?"

He laughed outright at that. "Dylan would be offended. He prides himself on having the most toxic equipment in the locker room." His eyes crinkled when he really smiled. "My hidden talent is actually attention to detail."

"Is that right?" I asked, suddenly aware of how close we were standing.

"Absolutely. For instance, I've noticed you always push your hair behind your right ear when you're concentrating on a shot." His voice dropped lower. "And you bite your lower lip when you're reviewing photos you're not satisfied with."

The fact that he'd been watching me that closely made my pulse quicken. "That's... observant."

"Like I said, attention to detail." His gaze dropped momentarily to my lips. "It's what makes me good at what I do."

The air between us felt charged.

"And what is it that you do, exactly?" I asked, my own voice barely above a whisper.

He leaned in slightly. "Right now? I'm contemplating—"

“Wright!” Coach Alvarez’s voice cut through the moment like a blade. “Quit flirting and meet me in my office. Now!”

Ethan snapped upright, heat creeping into his cheeks. “On my way, Coach.” He leaned close and whispered, “Sorry—I’ve got to go. He probably wants to finalize Friday’s lineup.”

I watched him walk away, noticing the change in his posture—shoulders squaring, back straightening, as if physically bracing himself. Through pure photographer's instinct, I raised my camera, zooming in on his conversation with Coach through the office's glass partition.

I wasn't trying to eavesdrop—I couldn't hear them anyway—but I found myself captivated by the range of emotions crossing Ethan's face. Determination as Coach spoke, pointing at a clipboard. Concern as he ran a hand through his hair. Then, just for a flash, something vulnerable, almost pained, before his expression shuttered again into calm confidence.

When he returned, his distraction was palpable. "Everything okay?" I asked, packing up my equipment.

"Yeah," he said automatically, then seemed to reconsider. "Actually, no. Another scout will be at Friday's game. Pittsburgh again, plus someone from Toronto." He said it casually, but I could hear the undercurrent of anxiety.

"That's good though, right? More attention?"

He shrugged, his eyes not meeting mine. "More chances to screw up."

The defeated undertone in his voice made me pause. This wasn't the confident captain I'd come to know. "Hey," I said impulsively, slinging my camera bag over my shoulder. "Let's grab coffee."

He glanced at his watch. "I should really review some game footage—"

"The footage will still be there in an hour," I interrupted. "Come on. My treat."

To my surprise, he acquiesced with a tired nod. "Yeah, okay. Thanks."

Brewed Sunshine hummed with the chaos of the pre-exam rush. We squeezed into a corner table, each of us cradling a steaming mug almost too big to hold. For a few minutes, we sat in surprisingly comfortable silence, watching students frantically typing on laptops or quizzing each other with flashcards.

"I used to love hockey," Ethan said suddenly, his voice so quiet I almost missed it. "Just purely loved it."

I set my coffee down, giving him my full attention. "And now?"

He stared into his cup. "Now it's... complicated. Don't get me wrong, I still love being on the ice. There are moments when everything clicks and it's perfect and I remember why I started playing." He traced the rim of his mug with his index finger. "But then there's everything else—the pressure, the expectations, the constant evaluation."

"From the scouts?" I asked gently.

"From everyone. The scouts, Coach, the team..." he hesitated. "My father, mostly."

Something in his voice when he mentioned his father made my heart ache. "The hockey legend," I said, remembering what Tyler had told me.

Ethan's smile was humorless. "The legend with the shattered knee and the unfulfilled potential. Who now lives vicariously through his son."

"That must be hard for you."

"It's fine," he said automatically, then caught himself. "Actually, no, it's not fine. It's exhausting. Every game, every practice, feels like a referendum on my worth. One bad play and I can physically feel his disappointment, even when he's not there."

His honesty surprised me. This wasn't the carefully maintained image of the confident team captain, but something raw and real. I found myself wanting to comfort him, to tell him he was more than just his performance on the ice.

"You know," I said instead, "I get it. Not the hockey part, obviously, but the pressure."

He looked up, curious.

"I'm the first one in my family to go to college," I explained. "My parents work multiple jobs to help support me and my siblings. They never explicitly say it, but I know they're counting on me to succeed, to make it all worth it." I stirred my coffee absently. "Every time I get a bad grade or struggle with an assignment, I feel like I'm letting them down."

"Like you're not living up to the investment," Ethan said, understanding immediately.

"Exactly. And with my scholarship reduction, the pressure's even worse. If I can't find a way to make up that money, all their sacrifices might be for nothing."

He met my gaze, his voice soft. “That’s a lot to carry.”

I nodded, feeling strangely vulnerable under his gaze. "The Sports Illustrations connection could literally save my degree. But..." I hesitated, then decided to be honest. "It's not just about the money anymore."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm actually starting to care about hockey," I admitted with a small laugh. "God help me, but I find myself watching game highlights to better understand what I'm photographing. And I've started to care about the team—not just my shots of them, but the guys themselves."

Especially you , went the thought I didn't voice. But watching his expression soften almost imperceptibly, I couldn't help wondering if he'd somehow read my thoughts.

"Well, that makes one of us," he said, attempting a joke but not quite selling it. "Sometimes I think about what it would be like to just... stop. Walk away from hockey and do something else entirely."

"What would you do?" I asked, genuinely curious.

He looked surprised, as if no one had ever asked him that before. "I don't know. I've never really let myself think about it seriously." He was quiet for a moment. "Maybe something with sports management. Or coaching kids, where it's still about the joy of the game."

"You'd be good at that," I said, thinking of his patience explaining stick handling to me. "You're a natural teacher."

He looked pleased by the observation. "What about you? If money and expectations weren't factors, what would your dream be?"

"Photojournalism," I answered without hesitation. "Traveling, capturing stories that matter. Sports photography is amazing, but I'd love to document real issues, real lives."

"You'd be good at that," he echoed my words. "You have a way of seeing things—really seeing them." His eyes held mine. "It's a little unnerving sometimes, actually."

"What do you mean?"

"The way you look at me through that camera. Like you're seeing past all the hockey gear and captain bullshit," he said quietly. "Like you can see what I'm actually thinking."

My breath caught. "Can I?"

The question hung between us, charged with something I wasn't ready to name. Ethan leaned forward slightly, his coffee forgotten.

"Sometimes I think you're the only one who can," he admitted.

The moment was interrupted by his phone buzzing insistently. He checked it and sighed. "Dylan. Apparently there's a plumbing emergency at our apartment." He rolled his eyes. "Which probably means he tried to flush something ridiculous again."