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DECLAN

I swing my hockey stick through the air, pretending to focus on Coach’s instructions about our power play formation. But my brain’s doing pirouettes instead of processing hockey plays. All I can think about is tomorrow’s ballet session—or more honestly, the woman teaching it.

Victoria. Even her name sounds like it should be printed in fancy script on a marquee. She should be dancing across a grand stage instead of teaching a bunch of sweaty hockey players how to point their toes. I still can’t believe I convinced her to give me extra coaching.

“O’Rielly! You with us?” Coach Belanger barks.

I snap back to attention. “Yes, Coach. Power play. Got it.”

He raises an eyebrow, clearly not convinced, but continues with the drill. Emile gives me a curious look as we line up for the next play.

“You OK?” he asks. “You seem distracted.”

“I’m good,” I insist. “Just thinking about strategy.”

“Strategy, huh?” Emile smirks. “Like the way you strategically stayed behind yesterday to talk to a certain ballet instructor?”

I take a swipe at his shin guards with my stick. “Shut up, rookie.”

He laughs. “I saw the way you look at her.”

“You don’t see shit,” I counter, perhaps a little too defensive.

Emile only grins wider.

The truth is, I have been thinking about Victoria non-stop since yesterday’s ballet class. There’s something about her that’s gotten under my skin. Maybe it’s the way she commands a room full of hockey players without raising her voice. Or maybe it’s the way her eyes flash when she’s correcting someone’s form. Or the curve of her hips as she demonstrates a movement...

The way she corrected my movement in my dreams last night had me needing to change my sheets this morning. Fuck, it was hot…

I almost let out a groan.

“O’Rielly!”

A puck whizzes past my head, and I jerk back just in time, nearly losing my balance and windmilling my arms like a cartoon character on a banana peel. So much for looking cool in front of the guys.

“Head in the game, Declan!” Luc shouts from across the ice.

I shake myself mentally. This is ridiculous. I need to focus.

We run through drills for the next hour, and I force myself to concentrate on nothing but hockey. By the end, I’m dripping with sweat and my muscles ache, but I feel good. Centered. Hockey has always been my anchor, the one thing I understand completely.

After practice, I’m surprised to see how many guys are actually doing the stretches Victoria gave us. Calvin is in a corner, carefully working through the series of movements. Luc has his leg propped on the bench as he bends forward. Even Callum, our grouch of a goalie, is sitting on the floor with his legs spread, reaching for his toes.

“Look at us,” I joke, joining them for the stretches. “Prima ballerinas in the making. Callum, I think you’ve missed your calling. You’ve got the glower of a Russian ballet master already.”

Our goalie shoots me a look that could freeze water, which only proves my point.

“Laugh all you want,” Calvin says, not breaking his stretch. “But my body feels better already.”

I start the warm-down routine, and I have to admit, there’s something satisfying about the pull and release of tight muscles. I can feel tension in places I didn’t even know I was holding it.

“You know,” I say, reaching for my extended foot, “this ballet stuff might actually work.”

“Dr. Angelo thinks it’ll make a big difference in our recovery time,” Luc says. “And after what she did for my knee, I’d try anything she recommends.”

“Plus,” our left winger, Gideon Sinclair throws in with a smirk, “it’s not bad having a pretty instructor to look at, right? I really like a woman with curves...”

The comment lands wrong. I sit up straighter, the stretch forgotten. “She’s our coach, Gideon. You don’t talk about her like that.”

Gideon blinks. “What? I was giving her a compliment.”

“No, you weren’t. You were objectifying her. She deserves better than that.”

The room goes quiet for a beat too long. Then Gideon shrugs and gets up, heading for the showers with a muttered, “Whatever, man.”

I sit there, tension buzzing in my shoulders, aware of a few lingering glances. Maybe I overreacted. Or maybe not. All I know is that Victoria deserves respect—and not just because she’s good at her job.

“Someone’s got a crush,” Calvin teases, changing positions.

“I don’t have a crush,” I protest, even as I feel heat rising to my face. “I respect her professionally.”

Luc snorts. “Right. And I’m just professionally interested in Natalie’s cooking.”

“Don’t you dare elaborate, Luc. In my mind, that’s all you’re interested in, where my sister is concerned.” Emile laughs from his side of the locker room. “But we can talk about Declan’s crush on the ballet dancer as much as you all want.”

I throw my sweaty towel at him, hitting him square in the face. “Shut it, rookie. I told you, it’s not like that.”

But even as the words leave my mouth, I know I’m lying. And I also know this isn’t just some crush on a teacher like I’m some hormonal kid. I want her. Like, in every way there is. And I know this is crazy because I’ve only laid eyes on the woman twice. But there’s just something inside me whenever I’m around her. Something that sounds a lot like the very center of my soul whispering the word, mine.

“Earth to Declan,” Luc says, snapping his fingers in front of my face. “You still with us, bud?”

“Yeah, yeah.” I wave him off, standing and stretching some more. “Just thinking about those turnouts. I really need to work on my flexibility.”

Calvin snorts. “I bet you do.”

I ignore the innuendo, grabbing my bag and heading for the showers. I let the hot water pound against my skin, washing away the sweat and hopefully some of these inconvenient feelings. I have a private session with Victoria tomorrow, and I need to get my head on straight.

As I shower, a new idea forms. I know almost nothing about Victoria beyond her ballet skills. Maybe bringing her something thoughtful would show her I’m not just another self-absorbed hockey jock. Maybe she’d actually smile at me—directly at me—instead of that polite instructor smile she gives everyone.

After practice, I pull out my phone and do a quick search for ‘Victoria Fletcher ballet Peach Springs.’ Three searches and seventeen clicks later, I realize I’m now cyber-stalking my ballet instructor like some hockey-playing teenager with his first crush. But I can’t seem to stop. I read over articles about her dance studio, some local newspaper coverage of recitals, and social media profiles. Then I end up clicking through to her studio’s website.

‘ Fletcher Dance Academy: Where Every Body Can Dance ,’ reads the tagline. The site shows photos of students of all ages, sizes, and abilities. Victoria’s commitment to inclusivity is clear in every image and word. My admiration for her grows as I scroll through the page. This woman isn’t just teaching us ballet moves, she’s created something important back home.

I notice several mentions of her tied to Dougherty’s Bakehouse in Peach Springs, with photos of elaborate cake displays at recitals and mentions of their famous peach pastries. A deeper search brings up a news article: ‘Peach Springs’ Own Shelby Dougherty Wins Great Southern Bake Off.’ The photo shows a woman with a warm smile holding a trophy, Victoria standing proudly beside her with an arm around her shoulders. The caption under the photo places Victoria as her baking assistant.

It gives me an idea. I pull up maps to check how far Peach Springs is from Sugar City, and my heart sinks a little. It’s nearly three hours away—no way I could make the trip before our session tomorrow. But maybe I could find something similar here...