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When I open my eyes, Jack is already halfway down the ice. He turns sharply and faces me. Even in the misty half-light, I can see his overconfident grin. My competitive side kicks in.

I skate towards him, but keep having to glance down to make sure I have the puck.

Faster, Robson. Hustle, he yells.

I speed up, driven by my urge to shove the puck down his throat. It’s hard to keep track of everything at once. I’m still focused on the puck when I register a swish of movement beside me. Jack has taken the puck from me and is headed towards the other net, narrating his own play-by-play.

Sinclair steals the puck from Robson. He’s off on a breakaway. Scores! The crowd goes wild. Then he does his usual fist-pumping celebration while mimicking the roar of the crowd.

I skate back to centre ice and call out to him, Are you proud of yourself? Taking the puck away from an absolute beginner?

He laughs. Like candy from a baby. And yeah, I did it because you took your eyes off me.

You have to keep watching your opponents.

He passes the puck back to me, and even though I have a head start, he easily catches up and steals the puck again.

On my next attempt, he takes it again. And again.

And again. Apparently, there’s no limit on the number of times I can humiliate myself.

The only time I come close is when I accidentally get my hockey stick caught in Jack’s skate and knock him down. Even then, he recovers in time to stop me from pushing the puck into the net with my hand.

You broke so many rules on that play. Tripping, roughing, handling the puck, he chides.

I growl in frustration. I don’t know when I’ve hated someone this much. Can’t you let me score just one goal?

Sure. But first you have to admit that hockey is tough, and hockey players are awesome.

Honestly, he’s right. I was wrong about hockey players.

Every person I’ve met on the Mustangs is unique.

Jack is the nicest, but his teammates are great too.

Like animal-loving Mats, who gave me great advice and Jacob.

Or the team captain, Vik—or Big Z, as the guys call him—who agreed to be the subject of my second player profile.

And the entire women’s team, who have all been so welcoming.

However, I’m not admitting any of this to the jerk who’s been making me feel like a total klutz out here.

You can stay out here until the ice melts before I’ll say something that ridiculous.

You’re so tough, Jack teases. Fine, be like that. Let’s go, then. He skates back towards the bench, and I take this last opportunity to sneak in and score while his back is turned. Just when I swing the stick back for a satisfying whack, the puck disappears.

Jack lifts the puck with the end of his stick, flips it in the air, then catches and pockets it. He cocks his head. Ready to admit our greatness?

Ugh. Fine . Hockey players are jerks personally, but awesome out on the ice, I grit out.

I don’t think that’s exactly what I said, but close enough. C’mon. He skates off to the centre of the rink and I follow. Then we skate towards the goal together.

Sinclair has the puck, he dekes the Portage defenceman, and whoa, did he break his ankle? Coming in, the goalie tries a poke check, but oh, what’s this? A spectacular back pass to Robson…

The puck arrives perfectly on the blade of my hockey stick and I smack it into the net.

Score! A beauty by Andy Robson.

I can’t help it, I’m ridiculously thrilled by his stupid play-by-play and my first goal.

I throw my arms in the air and cheer. Next thing I know, Jack has his arms wrapped around me.

Even though this is how hockey players celebrate, it feels more personal.

Through his jacket, I can feel the firmness of his chest, the rise and fall of his breathing, and his body against mine.

Our eyes meet and then his gaze falls to my lips.

All I need to do is lean forward and close the scant inches between our mouths. But I’m frozen in place, all jangling nerves and tensed muscles.

After a few agonizing seconds, I smile weakly at him, then pull away and skate towards the bench. What is wrong with me? Not only can I not flirt, but I’m not even going for what I want.

That was surprisingly fun, I say in a hoarse voice.

We’ll make a hockey player out of you yet, he replies.

Yeah, now that I know that’s not possible.

You don’t have to play varsity. There’s rec hockey here too.

Mixed teams always need women. We start taking off our skates on opposite ends of the bench.

When I sneak a peek at him, he’s concentrating on untying his skates with surgical precision.

When he looks over, I immediately focus on my skates.

Once we’ve got our shoes back on, Jack goes to return the sticks and I follow him. We’re heading towards the back exit when we hear the sound of a door opening, then a man’s voice.

Jack freezes and grabs my arm.

Shit. We’re not actually supposed to be here.

Now it’s all coming together. The brick holding the door open and not turning on the lights—all because Jack was breaking the rules. And I’m a total rule follower.

Seriously? Well, I guess we’re in for a stern talking-to, I say.

His hazel eyes widen. Shit. There are a whole bunch of rules here. I haven’t read them all, but I know I’m not supposed to practice extra. I could get suspended. We need to hide, now.

He yanks me through the nearest door, which turns out to be a closet that’s already full of janitorial supplies. There’s barely any room for us to fit. I pull the door shut and press my ear against it. I can hear a man’s angry voice.

It’s your mistake, but I’m the one who has to come all the way back to the rink. You owe me. There’s a pause, so I figure he’s on the phone. The voice is familiar, and I run through the possibilities. Too old to be any of the players.

I think that’s Coach Greene, I whisper. The assistant coach sent me into a room full of half-naked players on purpose, so he’s not my favourite person.

When Jack doesn’t respond, I manage to turn around. Instead of his usual grin, he’s staring blankly ahead and mouth-breathing.

Are you okay?

He barely focuses on me. Umm, I’m not real good in small spaces.

Then why did you suggest we hide in a closet? I want to ask, but he’s already too miserable. Can you handle a few more minutes?

Yeah, sure, he says with zero conviction.

I turn to put my ear against the door again. I can’t hear Coach Greene’s voice anymore, but there’s the sound of a filing cabinet slamming shut.

I think he’s looking for something, so hopefully he’ll be gone soon. I turn back, and Jack looks even worse—his fists clenched and his face tensed.

Oh my god, are you sweating? I whisper.

Can we get out of here? His voice is way too loud.

I take his hands in mine and try to relax his grip.

Jack, close your eyes. I want you to slow your breathing.

In, one-two-three. Out, one-two-three. Think about your happy place.

Is it on the farm in those wide-open Saskatchewan, uh, places?

Or should that be Saskatchewanian? Ugh, there’s too much happening at once.

But I’m too late to calm him. Though his eyes are closed, Jack is panting even faster now. I squeeze his clammy hands. It’s okay. Just one more minute, I say soothingly. I want to turn back to the door and listen, but he’s got a death grip on my hands.

His eyes fly open. Fuck. I don’t think I can do this.

Shhh, I caution. His voice is deep and carrying.

If the coach hears, he’s definitely going to check in here.

And then both of us will be in trouble, Jack for whatever practice rules he’s broken, and me—someone who’s barely accepted around here already—for messing up again.

I’ve lured poor, innocent Jack into trouble with my feminine wiles. Ha.

Well, desperate times, right? Even though poor Jack seems to be on the verge of a meltdown, I’m hyperaware of being pressed right up next to him.

As I watch him swallow, all I can see are the muscles flexing in his neck.

I recall the hidden parts—his smooth, defined chest, his round nipples, that tiny maple leaf.

I am so ready to make the sacrifice to distract him.

Jack’s lips part, but before he can say anything, I raise my face to his and kiss him.