They were all screaming by the time Miles skated out for warmups‚ and he liked that too‚ the way it seemed to settle in his chest like a second heartbeat steady‚ the one thing in his life that had never once asked him to prove himself twice․ But tonight․ Tonight‚ scanning the student section out of habit as he circled the ice‚ and something in him lingered on something his eyes had no business lingering on and his heart‚ the steady metronome it had always been‚ stuttered for exactly one beat too long․ She was there․ Third row, behind the home bench, bundled into a Whitfield hoodie two sizes too big — Sky’s, probably, judging by the way Sky was practically vibrating in the seat beside her, waving a foam finger like she’d personally trained for this.
Harper sat with her arms crossed, expression somewhere between obligation and active discomfort, like she’d been dragged here against her will and was doing the math on how soon she could leave.
He told himself that didn’t matter, told himself a lot of things‚ lately‚ that he’d stopped fully believing․ “Eyes on the ice‚ Miller‚” Coach Reyes barked from the bench‚ and Miles refocused on warmups‚ his jaw tightening‚ irritated with himself for the reminder in the first place․ The first period was sloppy.
He missed an easy pass in the opening two minutes, took a penalty he shouldn’t have taken, sat in the box watching the other team’s power play unfold and feeling, for the first time all season, like the ice underneath him had gotten slightly unfamiliar.
He told himself it had nothing to do with the third row.
By the second period, something had shifted.
He didn’t look up at the stands — made a point not to, actually, kept his eyes locked on the puck and the bodies in front of him with the kind of discipline he usually reserved for playoff games — but somewhere underneath the focus, he was aware of her.
Aware in a way he didn’t have a name for and didn’t particularly want to examine, the way you’re aware of a held breath, or a held door, or any small thing waiting to be let go.
He scored off a rebound at the eleven-minute mark, a play that came together so cleanly it barely registered as effort — and when he turned to skate back to the bench, fist raised toward the roaring student section out of pure reflex, his eyes found her before he could stop them.
Now she wasn’t cheering․ She was just looking at him in something too subtle to read from afar‚ as if she didn’t expect to be impressed and resented the fact that she was․ He scored again in the third period.
And then a third time, a hat trick, the kind of night that didn’t happen by accident — except it had happened by accident, by something he refused to call by its actual name, by the simple, infuriating fact that every single time the puck found his stick, some part of him had been keenly, specifically aware of exactly where she was sitting.
The final buzzer went off to a wall of noise․ Whitfield‚ 5-2․ His teammates were all over him at center ice‚ gloves dropping‚ Jude practically tackling him into the boards with a grin splitting his whole face․ “Best game all season‚” Jude shouted over the noise‚ helmet off‚ hair plastered to his forehead․ “What got into you tonight?” Miles didn’t answer.
He was looking past Jude’s shoulder, toward the third row, where Harper was already standing, already being pulled toward the exit by an ecstatic Sky, already disappearing into the crowd without a single glance back in his direction.
He told himself that bothered him for purely competitive reasons.
He never believed that‚ either․ He found her twenty minutes later in the hallway outside the locker room‚ hair still damp from her shower‚ her gear bag slung over one shoulder as she leaned against the wall by the exit‚ scrolling through something on her phone․ She was clearly waiting for Sky‚ who had abandoned her to hunt down the rest of their friend group that had gotten separated in the crowd․ She looked up when he approached, and something flickered across her face — surprise, quickly smothered, replaced by the careful neutrality he was starting to recognize as her default armor.
“Five points,” he said, stopping in front of her, gear bag dropped against his shoulder, still riding the loose, electric high that always followed a good game.
“Hat trick.
You came to watch and I had the best night of my season.
Coincidence?” “I came because Sky wanted to watch the game․” She said it fast‚ a little too fast‚ her arms crossing tighter over her chest․ “It had nothing to do with you․” “Sure․” He let the word stretch out‚ unhurried‚ watching the way her eyes narrowed at the disbelief in it․ “You were watching pretty closely for someone who didn’t care․” “I was watching the game․ There’s a difference between watching a game and watching you․” “Is there?” He stepped closer ‚ not much‚ just enough to close some of the distance‚ close enough that he caught the faint trace of her shampoo‚ something clean and unfamiliar that he had no business cataloguing as carefully as he was․ “Because from where I was standing‚ every time I looked up‚ you were right there․” “You were imagining things.” “I’m good at multitasking․” That got a flicker of something out of her – not quite a smile‚ but close‚ the corner of her mouth twitched and then she caught herself and smoothed it back into disapproving composure․ “You’re insufferable․” “You’ve mentioned․” He tilted his head‚ studying her in the harsh fluorescent light of the corridor‚ the adrenaline of the game still humming under his skin‚ making everything feel sharper‚ closer‚ more charged than it probably was․ “You know what I think, tutor?” “I think you came tonight because some small‚ deeply buried part of you wanted to see if I was actually good at something besides being annoying․” He leaned in slightly‚ close enough now that she had to tip her chin up to keep looking at him‚ close enough that he could see the exact moment her breath caught‚ quick and involuntary‚ before she could stop it․ “And I think you got your answer․” “Miles‚ “I think,” he said, voice dropping lower, close enough now that the rest of the corridor seemed to fall away entirely, that the noise from the crowd still filtering out of the arena behind them sounded like it was coming from somewhere very far away, “that you’re standing a lot closer to me right now than someone who doesn’t care would stand.” Her eyes dropped, just for a second, to his mouth quick, involuntary, gone almost before it happened and something hot and reckless surged through his chest upon having seen it.
He leaned in․ Close enough that she could feel the warmth of his breath, enough that every rational thought she had left was screaming at her that ‘this was a terrible idea․’ ․ Then he pulled back․ Slow and deliberate․ He grinned at her‚ and all she could do was just blink; but the flush that swept up her throat had absolutely nothing to do with the cold air of the corridor․ “See you Tuesday‚ tutor‚” he said‚ already turning to stride off before she could think to reply․