Page 37

“I know.” I force my voice to stay level. “But if anything else happens, tell me. Okay?”

Her eyes flick to mine, then away. “Yeah. Okay.”

“Zoe.”

She sighs. “Yes. I’ll tell you.”

That’s the only answer I need. I lean in and press a soft kiss to the top of her head.

“See you tonight,” I murmur.

She looks at me for a beat, her brows pulling together like she doesn’t already know exactly what this is.

Let me love you, sweetheart.

I watch her for one more second—the shift in her shoulders, the careful way she moves to avoid my eyes again.

And I wonder, not for the first time this week, if I’m completely out of my mind or just really fucking in it .

But right now, I need to get to the rink. Get my head straight.

As I move into the hallway, she calls over her shoulder.

“This didn’t happen, by the way! Tell anyone you saw tears and I’ll sell your soul to the lowest bidder in the next team promo!”

“What tears?” I call back, grinning. “Didn’t see a thing. I was never here, you were never soft…”

I pause, glancing back at her with a wink.

“But you’re definitely still hotter than my coffee.”

She snorts into her cup and just like that, we’re back to normal.

Except it’s not normal.

Not anymore.

***

The whistle blasts, and my skates dig in hard. I pivot too sharply on the rush drill and feel it in my hip, but I push through. If my body’s wrecked by the end of this, that’s fine. It’s the only thing that’s been keeping my brain quiet lately.

I circle back to center ice, barely catching Logan’s muttered, “Christ, settle down,” as he glides past me.

Eli lines up across from me and nods at Coach on the boards. We’ve been doing transition sprints and odd-man rushes all morning, and no one’s had time to think, let alone chirp.

Until now.

“You good?” Eli murmurs beside me, just low enough for the mic’d boards not to pick it up.

“Fine.”

“You look like you haven’t slept in two nights.”

“I haven’t.”

Jake skates past and knocks his shoulder into mine. “She kick you out of bed already?”

I snort. “You wish.”

And I wish she was in the same fucking bed as me.

Reid shakes his head. “Can’t believe you’ve got Zoe Carlson living in your condo and you’re still showing up to camp early. That’s devotion.”

“She’s not exactly a morning person,” I say, shrugging like I’m not unraveling every time she doesn’t touch me.

Eli raises a brow. “And yet you’re still in a good mood.”

Logan skates up with a grin. “That’s because he’s getting laid. ”

“Or,” Reid says dryly, “he moved her in and now he’s in too deep to realize he’s already fucked.”

Oh, I’m well aware of how fucked I am.

I roll my eyes and drop my stick to re-glove. “It’s not that deep. She’s living with me for safety.”

Ryan, always the leveler, glances over. “We know. We’re just saying. You look like a guy trying very hard not to be in love with his girlfriend.”

Jake barks a laugh. “And losing.”

“Spectacularly,” Reid adds.

“Don’t forget the croissants,” Logan chimes. “He’s basically been proposing with pastry.”

“She posted him again this morning,” Eli adds. “Said he’s the ‘ best boyfriend in the world. ’ With the sparkle emoji.”

“And the flowers,” Reid says. “The weekly flowers.”

“They’re not weekly,” I say automatically. “They’re… situational.”

Eli scoffs. “Jesus. You are gone.”

“Coach!” Logan yells mid-pivot. “Walton’s in love and it’s affecting his timing!”

“Shut the hell up and skate,” Coach growls without looking.

We do.

We’re midway through breakout reps when I angle the reverse pass too wide, and Ryan has to reach for it, barely saving the play.

Coach Benson’s whistle slices through the air.

“AGAIN!” Benson growls. “Eyes up, Walton. Quit hospital-passing your damn captain!”

We scramble back into formation. I take the puck up the wing, keep my head up, and connect clean with Ryan’s blade like I actually know what I’m doing. It’s sharp. The kind of pass Benson likes. He barely nods, but I’ll take it.

We get called for water, and I’m halfway to the bench when I hear it.

“Walton. With me.”

Shit.

I peel off and follow him toward the tunnel. Benson doesn’t stop until we’re half-shaded by the overhang between the benches, out of earshot of the rest of the guys.

He crosses his arms and looks at me. Not mad, just stern. Eyes scanning me, taking inventory of every part of me that’s off.

“You skating hurt?”

I shake my head. “No, Coach.”

“You sleeping?”

“Yes.”

“You lying?”

“…Maybe.”

He exhales hard through his nose and looks out over the rink. “You remember I was in that board meeting, right? The one where your little PR stunt got green-lit?”

I say nothing.

He cuts his gaze back to me. “You wanna explain to me how that music festival kiss wasn’t real?”

I freeze.

He doesn’t give me time to answer.

“I’ve watched you for five seasons, Walton. Seen you half-ass media days, clown your way through drills, coast when you should’ve been digging in. But the second Zoe Carlson walks into a room, you suddenly remember how to sit upright.”

“Coach—”

“I don’t care,” he says, lifting a hand. “Not if it’s working. And it is working—on the ice, in the press, online. You’re behaving. Dialed in. And for once, you’re not making me wanna hurl a puck at your skull.”

I huff a laugh.

“You wanna prove you give a shit?” he says, stepping in closer.

“I do give a shit.”

“Then show it. On the puck. On your gaps. Not just in your damn Instagram stories.”

He lets that hang there, and I nod once, jaw tight.

“Because if this thing with Zoe is real now, like I think it is , whether you’ve admitted it to anyone or not, I don’t want you distracted. I need you ready from game one, not skating through molasses because you’re too busy wondering about the girl you got at home. So you better lock it in.”

I blink. Then smirk.

“I mean, she’s a great girl, Coach. She—”

He shoots me a look. “You write vows on my ice, and I swear to God, Walton, I’ll bury you in drills.”

Then he claps me once on the shoulder, harder than necessary, and walks off.

***

By the time I pull into the underground garage, it’s just after two. We have a rest day tomorrow, thank God, which means one blissful stretch of time where I won’t be skating suicides or getting verbally abused by Coach Benson in front of a dozen sweaty witnesses.

The elevator dings, and I lean my head back against the wall inside, letting myself breathe for a second.

Lock it in.

Coach’s words haven’t left my head all day. Not just because he’s right, but because the only thing I want to do is lock it in.

But she’s not there yet, and pushing her would be the worst kind of selfish.

The doors open to the lobby, and I step out, already halfway to the mailboxes, when I hear an unfamiliar voice.

“Afternoon, Mr. Walton!”

I glance up and spot a guy behind the front desk—mid-thirties, clean cut, cheerful in that overly-helpful-security-guy kinda way.

“Hey,” I say, giving him a nod. “You new?”

“Just transferred buildings. Nate,” he adds, tapping his badge. “Big Storm fan, by the way. Your game against Dallas last season—overtime snipe, right? That was sick.”

I grin. “Appreciate it.”

He slides something across the counter. “This got dropped off earlier. Left it at the desk since your girlfriend wasn’t on the delivery list.”

I take the small package. “Thanks.”

“Anytime,” he says, beaming like I just handed him a signed stick. “And hey, good luck next week. I’ll be watching.”

“Thanks,” I repeat, already heading for the elevator.

The doors slide shut, and a moment later, I step into the condo, kicking my shoes off before I call out.

“You home?”

Zoe’s voice floats from the living room. “Nope. I’m a figment of your deeply repressed imagination.”

I round the corner to find her curled on the couch, laptop on her thighs, and a spoon hanging out of her mouth.

“Pudding?” I ask, raising a brow.

“Chocolate mousse. I’m fancy.”

I drop my bag and head to the kitchen to grab a protein shake. “Rest day tomorrow.”

“Big plans? More running away from your feelings?”

I open the fridge. “Probably. I’m thinking ten miles this time.”

She hums an amused sound around her spoon.

When I look back at her, she’s watching me closely, her eyes a little softer than usual.

“Nice pass in the last drill today, by the way,” she says, looking back at her computer. “Coach posted a clip to his story.”

I blink. “You’re stalking Benson’s socials now?”

“I’m very bored and easily entertained.”

“You’re obsessed with me.”

She shoots a raised brow at me. “Aren’t we all.”

I’m about to say something back—something that walks the line between dangerous and honest—when her phone rings.

She glances down and lets out a breathy laugh.

“Charlie,” she says, shaking her head fondly as she picks it up.

She answers, mid-smile.

“Hey, babe, what’s up?”

The smile drops.

“ What? ”