Page 9

Off Balance

Nora

“I still don’t understand why we’re spending our free period at the hockey rink,” Sadie says, pulling her bright pink beanie lower over her ears as we climb the metal bleachers. “It’s freezing in here.”

“I told you,” I say, trying to sound casual. “It’s for our biopsych project. We’re studying competitive performance under pressure.”

“Uh-huh.” Sadie gives me a sidelong glance that says she’s not buying it. “And it’s just a coincidence that Dean Carter is on the ice right now?”

“I didn’t even know he’d be practicing,” I lie, settling onto the cold bench.

The truth is, I memorized his practice schedule days ago. Not in a creepy way—I just happened to notice the team’s calendar posted outside the athletic center. And I just happened to suggest to Sadie that we should take a study break right when I knew they’d be on the ice.

Totally normal behavior.

The rink is mostly empty this time of day—just a few other students scattered in the stands, probably friends or girlfriends of players. The team is already in the middle of drills, moving in organized chaos across the gleaming surface.

I spot Dean immediately.

It’s not just the number on his jersey—though I’ve somehow committed that to memory too. It’s the way he moves. Controlled but fluid, like every motion has a purpose. Like gravity is just a suggestion, not a law.

“Wow,” Sadie says beside me, following my gaze. “Carter’s actually good. I always assumed hockey players were just testosterone wrapped in pads.”

“He’s more than that,” I say automatically, then wince when I see her eyebrows shoot up.

“Oh really? And how would you know?”

I busy myself with unwrapping my scarf. “Just from tutoring him. And the project.”

But my eyes are drawn back to the ice, to Dean, like there’s a magnetic pull I can’t resist.

I’ve never seen him in his element like this. In class, in tutoring sessions, even in my dorm room, he’s contained—restrained, almost. Every movement measured, every word carefully chosen.

But here?

He’s power in motion. His shoulders—broader than I’d realized—shift under his jersey as he changes direction, lightning-quick. When he steals the puck from another player with a precise flick of his stick, I feel a flutter low in my stomach.

“Oh my god,” Sadie whispers beside me. “You’re practically drooling.”

“I am not,” I protest, but I can feel my cheeks heating up despite the chill.

The coach blows a whistle, and the players circle up for instruction. I watch Dean’s profile as he listens, the sharp line of his jaw, the focused intensity in his stance. He nods at something the coach says, then breaks away when they’re dismissed.

As he skates back toward center ice, something changes. One of his teammates—I recognize Gavin, the team captain—says something that makes Dean break into a rare, full smile. The transformation is startling. His whole face lights up, years dropping away. He laughs, the sound carrying across the ice, and playfully checks Gavin into the boards.

They tussle briefly, like oversized puppies, before the coach yells at them to focus. Dean immediately straightens, back to business, but there’s still a hint of that smile at the corner of his mouth.

I can’t look away.

“Okay,” Sadie says, nudging me with her elbow. “What’s the story? For real this time.”

“There’s no story,” I say, still watching Dean as he sets up for the next drill.

“Nora.” She turns to face me fully. “Don’t lie to me. I’ve seen you turn down perfectly nice, incredibly hot guys without a second thought. But suddenly you’re dragging me to a hockey practice in subzero temperatures to watch Dean Carter skate around? Something’s up.”

I sigh, finally tearing my eyes away from the ice. “Fine. I might have a crush. It’s not a big deal.”

“A crush.” She draws out the word like it’s a foreign concept. “On Dean Carter. Who, until last week, was dating one of our closest friends.”

A pang of guilt hits me. “I know. Do you think Daphne would be mad?”

Sadie considers this, watching the players drill. “Probably,” she says finally. “But they’re officially over, so…” She shrugs. “You could always talk to her about it.”

The thought makes my stomach knot. “And say what? ‘Hey, remember that guy you complained about being too intense and controlling? Well, turns out that’s exactly what I’m into.’”

Sadie snorts. “Maybe not exactly like that.” She studies me for a moment. “So what is it about him? Specifically?”

I watch Dean execute a perfect pivot, all controlled strength and precision. “I don’t know. He’s just… different than I expected.”

“Different how?”

How do I explain it? That he makes me feel seen in a way no one else ever has? That I can’t stop thinking about what Daphne said, about him wanting surrender? That the thought of letting go—just once, just with him—makes my skin feel too tight?

“He’s complicated,” I say instead. “Everyone sees this intense, serious guy, but there’s more to him than that. He cares about things. Really cares. And he doesn’t apologize for it.”

Sadie’s watching me with growing interest. “You’ve got it bad, Shaw.”

“I do not,” I protest, but we both know it’s a lie.

On the ice, Dean scores during a scrimmage, a clean shot that flies past the goalie. His teammates crowd around him, and I catch another glimpse of that smile—the unguarded one, the one that transforms his whole face.

It’s like seeing two different people in the same body. The disciplined, controlled Dean who never misses a deadline (anymore), who speaks in measured tones, who watches me with those intense gray eyes. And this other Dean—the one who laughs freely, who moves with power and confidence across the ice, who lets himself be swept up in the moment.

I want to know both of them. All of him.

“Earth to Nora,” Sadie waves a hand in front of my face. “Practice is ending. Want to stay and watch them shower too, or can we please go somewhere warm?”

I roll my eyes but stand, gathering my things. “Yes, fine, let’s go.”

As we descend the bleachers, I chance one last look at the ice. The team is breaking up, heading toward the locker rooms. Dean skates toward the far end, his back to me, oblivious to my presence.

It’s better that way. I don’t know what I’d say if he saw me here.

Back in our dorm room that night, I’m trying to focus on my developmental psychology reading, but my mind keeps drifting back to the rink. To Dean’s powerful stride across the ice. To the easy laugh he shared with his teammate. To the flash of his eyes when he scored.

My phone buzzes with a text from Sadie, who’s at the library.

Sadie: So are you going to talk to Daphne about him?

I chew my lip, considering my response.

Me: No, probably not. Nothing’s going to happen anyway.

Sadie: Sure, Jan. You were practically having hockey fantasies in the stands today.

I laugh despite myself.

Me: Was not.

Sadie: Were too. I’m surprised you didn’t melt the ice with that look.

I hesitate, fingers hovering over the keyboard. Part of me wants to confide in her—about the conversation in my room, about how close Dean and I came to crossing a line. About how much I can’t stop thinking about it.

Me: Fine. Maybe I was. But have you SEEN him on the ice? The way he moves is almost illegal. And when he gave that rare smile? I wanted to climb him like a tree.

I hit send, then immediately freeze as I realize my mistake. The text didn’t go to Sadie.

It went to Dean.

Horror washes over me in a cold wave. I stare at the screen, at the name at the top of the conversation—DEAN CARTER, not Sadie Wilson.

“No, no, no,” I whisper, frantically trying to figure out if there’s any way to unsend a text. There isn’t.

Three dots appear. He’s typing.

I consider throwing my phone out the window. Or transferring schools. Or possibly faking my own death.

The dots stop. Then start again. Stop.

I quickly fire off a reply before I have to move to Antarctica.

Me: Sorry about that. Ignore. Wrong thread.

Finally, a message appears:

Dean: We’ll talk about this tomorrow, Nora.

His tone is impossible to read. Is he angry? Amused? Disgusted?

The formality makes me think he’s disappointed, which somehow feels worse than anger.

I type and delete a dozen responses. Apologies, explanations, jokes to lighten the mood. None of them seem right.

In the end, I just send:

Me: I’m sorry. That wasn’t meant for you.

Dean: I figured. Sleep well.

That’s it. No emoji, no further explanation. Just the certainty that we’ll be discussing this tomorrow.

I fall back on my bed, mortified. How am I supposed to face him now? What am I supposed to say?

Sorry I accidentally told you I want to climb you like a tree. Can we go back to pretending we don’t have crushing sexual tension?

My phone buzzes again. This time, it really is Sadie.

Sadie: Hello? Earth to Nora? Did you die of embarrassment just admitting you think hockey boy is hot?

If only she knew.

Me: I just sent that text to Dean by mistake.

Three dots. Then:

Sadie: HOLY SHIT

Sadie: WHAT DID HE SAY???

Me: “We’ll talk about this tomorrow, Nora.”

Sadie: Damn. That’s either really good or really bad.

Me: How could it possibly be good?

Sadie: Depends on whether he wants to be climbed like a tree.

I groan and pull my pillow over my face. Tomorrow is going to be excruciating.

But a small, traitorous part of me wonders what he’ll say. What he’ll do. Whether he’s thinking about me right now, the way I can’t stop thinking about him.

I wonder if maybe, just maybe, my humiliating mistake might force us both to acknowledge what’s been building between us.

And despite everything, that thought doesn’t feel entirely terrible.