Page 64 of Puck Your Feelings

Wait, what? This is new information. I file it away for later interrogation.

"Good," Svetlana nods. "You with him." She points at me, and I swear I see Kane's shoulders relax just a fraction.

Not that I was hoping to be paired with him or anything.

"Now," Svetlana claps her hands. "Basic positions. Watch."

She demonstrates a series of movements that look deceptively simple. Until we try them ourselves.

Petrov and Wall are the first disaster. Wall's attempt at a graceful turn sends his elbow directly into Petrov's face, and by the third accidental hit, Wall is staring deadpan at Coach.

"This is attempted murder," he announces. "And I'm the weapon."

Ace and Groover are surprisingly decent, moving together with unexpected coordination that has Svetlana nodding in grudging approval. Mateo whistles from the stands, and Grooves blows him a kiss that almost costs him his balance.

I attempt a solo spin that Svetlana demonstrated, confident that my years of hockey have prepared me for this moment.

They have not.

My skates slide out from under me, and I hit the ice with a thud that knocks the wind out of my lungs and the dignity out of my soul.

"Fuck me sideways with a hockey stick," I wheeze.

Kane appears above me, extending a hand. "Not how I'd phrase it, but accurate sentiment."

I grab his hand and let him pull me up, surprised by how easily he lifts me. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

His mouth does that almost-smile thing. "Maybe a little."

"Again!" Svetlana shouts from across the ice. "With more passion!"

"I'm passionate about not breaking my tailbone," I mutter, but I get back into position.

Kane's hands come to rest lightly on my hips, adjusting my stance. "Bend your knees more," he says. "And keep your weight centered."

His touch is professional, instructive, but it still sends a weird little shiver up my spine that I'm choosing to ignore completely.

After twenty minutes of various humiliations, Svetlana calls for a water break. I collapse onto the bench, my legs burning in ways they never do during hockey practice.

"This is ridiculous," I pant, grabbing my water bottle. "I'm a professional athlete. I shouldn't be winded from prancing around for twenty minutes."

Kane sits beside me, not even breathing hard. Fucker.

I glance over his shoulder and notice him watching something on his phone—a figure skating video, the skater executing a perfect jump that looks physically impossible.

"You actually like this stuff?" I ask, leaning closer to see the screen.

He looks momentarily caught, then shrugs. "I appreciate technical precision."

"Uh-huh." I study him. "There's more to it than that. Spill."

He hesitates, then sighs. "My mom loved it. After she died, I kept watching. My dad absolutely hated it. Thought it wasn't masculine enough. Which, honestly, made me like it more."

The admission feels significant somehow, like he's handed me a small piece of himself that not many people get to see.

"Teach me, then," I say, surprising myself. "If you know so much."

He looks startled. "What?"