Page 116 of The Play Maker

Maisie glances up as they call her name, grinning wide, then looks down at her skates.

“Okay,” she says, blowing out a breath. “Don’t let me down, you two.” She taps her fingertips against the tops of her skates. It’s quiet, barely audible, but I catch every word. My brows shootup in surprise, and my lips curve into a grin before I can stop them.

My fucking soulmate.

I drag myself back to my seat, eager to watch her kill it out there.

The lights shift, and a low hum rolls through the speakers as the first note of her music cuts in.

Then she steps onto the ice.

And the entire goddamn arena goes still.

Even the guys shut up. Logan doesn’t say a word. Ryan leans forward. No one breathes.

Maisie glides into the center like she was made for it—like the ice isn’t just beneath her, but a part of her. Like it listens when she moves. Like it answers only to her.

And right now, it does.

Every eye follows her. Every breath in the place holds.

She moves slowly at first, arms lifting with the rise of the music, fingers carving something soft into the cold air. There’s this quiet confidence in her body, this ease that makes it impossible to look anywhere else.

Then she turns and picks up speed. The wind pulls at her hair, her skirt fluttering as she gathers momentum, and launches into a jump so smooth it barely looks real.

She spins in the air before landing it effortlessly, her arms wide, chest lifted, like she was never not meant to fly.

I’m frozen. Jaw hanging. Completely fucking gone.

I’ve seen talent. I’ve played alongside guys who were born with a stick in their hands. Athletes who could make a puck do things that shouldn’t be possible.

But this is something else entirely.

This is more than a sport or technique. It’s art.

And I’m watching her heart speak in a language I’ll never quite understand, but somehow still feel.

That pink dress catches the lights with every turn, glinting like stars. Her thighs flex, her back curves, and her skates carve the ice like she’s painting on it.

I think half the guys in here just fell in love with her.

Too fucking bad.

She’s mine.

And yeah, I only kissed her once—twice if you count the library—and I haven’t touched her since. But it doesn’t matter.

Because the second she looks up at me and her eyes soften and her mouth tips into the smallest, most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen, I know there’s not a single other person in this world that can make me feel like she does.

The final note hits, and the crowd goes wild. People leap to their feet, clapping, cheering.

She glides toward the edge, slowing down, her breaths fast and shallow as she coasts to a stop at the barrier. Her eyes scan the crowd, and then land on me.

And when she sees me, she smiles. And my whole fucking chest caves in.

I stand up without thinking, my heart pounding as I make my way down the steps toward the rink.

She steps off the ice just as I reach the barrier, still catching her breath.