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The rink was a large structure with plenty of supporting space inside where the players gathered and coaches had their offices.

We went in through the back, walking down a well-lit corridor of large white tiles and white walls.

Doors lined both sides of the hallway to the end, where the locker rooms awaited.

One was for guest teams, Patrick explained, although I knew the architecture of a rink from my days in the skates.

The bigger locker room belonged to the Saints, and it was full of muscled guys in various states of undress, setting my cheeks on fire as I stepped inside.

“Alright, everyone, a moment, please,” shouted Easton, their captain.

The guys looked at me before turning to Easton.

“This is Shane. He’s a sports psychology junior, and he’s doing a study.

You’re gonna be seeing him a lot around here, so get used to it.

He’s not here to observe any of you. Just Patrick. ”

A laugh rippled through the room, but the joke escaped me.

“All you need to do is act as you normally would. Any attempts to mess with Patrick or Shane to skew the data will mean you’re picking up the tab at Lumière that night. Am I understood?”

“Aye, aye,” the voices boomed.

“The table for the entire team?” someone asked.

“Lennox is loaded, guys,” someone else said. “Get him to mess with Patrick.”

“I’m not loaded,” the guy I suspected was Lennox said. He was a tall, curly-haired guy with sharp features and piercing eyes. When his comment received roaring laughter, he shrugged. “Fine, but I’m still not doing it.”

“Fastest way to ruin,” someone quipped.

“We’re thirsty, Lenny,” someone else said.

Lennox darkened. “Don’t call me that.”

“Settle down, guys,” Easton called. Beside him, Elio towered over everyone, his expression very much reinforcing Easton’s words. Just looking at his narrow eyes and pursed lips made you want to do what Easton said. “You’re gonna treat Shane like one of us. Got it?”

Someone slapped me on the shoulder. Easton had absorbed my attention so fully that I hadn’t noticed Patrick stepping up beside me. “Hear that? We’re a nice bunch.”

“I…expected that,” I said.

He chuckled. “I’m sure you didn’t, but it’s nice of you to say that.”

I swallowed and nodded.

The guys changed into their protective gear and bright blue jerseys, their skates strapped on and their sticks in their hands.

Coach Roger Webber waited in the rink for the Saints to file out.

He acknowledged me with a curt nod, having spoken with my mentor about the project before, and I settled in the front row as a spectator.

My red notebook was in my lap after a moment, pen in my hand, and I watched the game begin.

The game was beside the point, but I couldn’t resist the rising thrill of it.

My job was to observe Patrick’s expressions while Coach Webber pointed out everyone’s weaknesses.

I didn’t let myself be distracted by the eerie beauty of Patrick’s eyes when he steeled himself in a row of players.

I didn’t think of his sharp cheekbones or the moment of embarrassing weakness that had possessed me half an hour ago.

I only observed him the way a scientist observed a molecule.

When the team split into practice groups, I followed Patrick across the ice.

As if someone had flicked a switch in the back of his head, the daytime joker was gone.

It made me think of aliens, beaming the real Patrick off the ice and putting in a vicious clone.

For the smallest guy on the team, Patrick moved with swift ease, relying on the speed of his movement rather than the weight of his body to execute hard checks against the boards.

Beyond the roughness, he was focused on the puck and the other players with incredible precision.

He snatched the puck right from under an opponent’s nose, flipping it on the edge of his stick with flashy confidence.

Like a magician pulling a coin out of thin air, Patrick made the puck disappear somewhere on the blade of his stick, then reappear as he swept between two opponents coming to crash into him.

Slippery like an eel, he passed through unscathed, leading the puck to Easton so late into the moment that even I was certain Easton would receive it.

When the enemy defenses rounded on Easton, biting the same bait I did, Patrick executed a risky, wild switch, smashing into an enemy defender and letting the impact turn him around, the puck sliding across the ice to Elio, who waited undefended near the goalpost. The point was impossible to contest.

I’d made the mistake of forgetting all about Patrick for a moment, watching the game like an avid fan. When I found my subject again, he was red-faced with a mean frown on his face and a calculating gaze sweeping across the rink.

The whistle pierced through the chill air, and the players dispersed. How much of what Patrick had done was skill and how much was luck, it was hard to tell. It was a risky maneuver one wouldn’t expect from a laid-back guy like Patrick. Not until they saw him on the ice.

I resisted the curiosity to check Patrick’s heartbeat and speed of movement right away.

It would slowly add to the formation of bias if I let myself do it.

Instead, I kept a timestamp in my notebook, writing down what had transpired in the last three minutes.

If the data correlated later, as I suspected it would, I would be able to cross-check it.

When the drills were over, I had several pages of notes on Patrick’s behavior, mainly relating to his expressions and gestures.

He had, I was pretty sure, done a few showy things for my benefit.

I could tell it was the case because his gaze would find me every time he did it, almost as if he was daring me to dismiss such brilliance.

Obviously, I had to, because it didn’t matter how well he played.

It mattered far more how often he searched for a stranger’s approval.

It made me wonder what was hiding beneath all that outward confidence.

“Are we debriefing?” Patrick asked as we filed into the locker room.

The thought of sitting across from Patrick and picking his brain after I had already searched every part of his body with my thirsty gaze was deeply unsettling. “I think not,” I said. “We’re still testing the waters. Let’s call it a day, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Gym, then,” Patrick said. “Is six alright?”

“Perfect,” I said, taking the smartwatch once he unstrapped it. “See you.”

I took a step away from the locker room. “Um,” Patrick stopped me. “Good game, huh?”

I blinked, caught by surprise, and nodded. “I think so.”

“Yeah, it was good,” Patrick assured me. Or he assured himself. I couldn’t tell, but it was worth noting down. He lingered by the locker room a moment longer, then retreated with a wave.

I walked down the hallway, doing my best not to run.

Seeing him move so majestically between much bigger and tougher guys, seeing him employ his smarts and his talents in a way that made him stand out, was more than I could take.

It only made this crawling sensation beneath my skin more present and intense.

I simmered with it, and it terrified me more than having to spend time around all the Saints day after day.

What the hell had I done to myself?