Pride and Pucks and Prejudice - 19. Chapter 19

Jackson

Practice had ended nearly forty minutes ago. Most of the team had vanished before I'd even finished peeling off my shoulder pads. A few guys had headed home. A few had appointments.

Ben had invited half the dressing room somewhere for wings before Coach Hayes reminded him we had an early flight the next morning.

Now the rink was almost empty. Exactly the way I wanted it.

I lined another puck on the hashmarks. Picked my corner. Shot. The puck rang cleanly off the inside of the post before dropping into the net.

Another.

Another.

Another.

The rhythm usually settled my head. Today it wasn't helping much. Every shot somehow wandered back to the same place.

Noah. The brewery. Him laughing at Ben. The way he'd looked at me afterwards.

I'd caught him watching me. Really watching me.

When I'd asked what was wrong, he'd simply said, "Nothing."

I'd believed him. Mostly.

The puck slid off my stick and drifted harmlessly into the corner.

I sighed. "You're overthinking."

The empty rink declined to comment.

---

I collected the scattered pucks and dumped them into the bucket. The arena had taken on that peculiar stillness it always found after practice. The boards creaked softly as the ice settled. Somewhere beneath the stands, equipment carts rattled across concrete. The Zamboni hummed its slow circles on the far sheet. Fresh ice gleamed beneath bright lights.

Peaceful.

I slung my stick over one shoulder and wandered up towards the seating bowl. Noah was already there. Of course he was.

He sat halfway up the lower rows with a sports drink resting beside him and a tablet balanced on one knee. Game footage. I should have guessed.

He looked up as I approached. "Thought you'd gone."

"So did I."

He glanced at the stick. "Extra shooting?"

I shrugged. "Couldn't quite get enough."

He nodded as though that made perfect sense. "It happens."

I dropped into the seat beside him. Not too close, but not far away either. Just... Beside him.

He locked the tablet and set it aside. "You finished pretending today's shooting percentage meant something?"

"I wasn't pretending."

"No?"

"I genuinely thought the left circle hated me."

"It probably does."

"It felt personal."

"It usually is."

I smiled. "You sound very certain."

"I've argued with enough ice surfaces."

"I heard about the goalpost."

He looked almost offended. "That story is never going away."

"Absolutely not."

"It wasn't even my story."

"You laughed."

"So did you."

"Not that hard."

He raised an eyebrow. "No?"

"...Maybe a little."

"A lot."

"Fine."

"A lot."

We let the conversation fade. Not because either of us had run out of things to say. Just because there wasn't anything that needed saying.

Below us, the Zamboni reached the end boards before turning with slow, practiced precision. One of the equipment staff stacked practice jerseys into a rolling bin. Another disappeared through the tunnel carrying an armful of sticks. The building echoed in comfortable little sounds.

I took a drink. Noah did the same a moment later. Neither of us seemed in any hurry to leave.

Funny how silence used to feel awkward with people, like something that needed filling with questions or small talk, anything to keep the conversation alive.

It had never been like that with Noah. We could spend ten minutes saying nothing and somehow still feel as though we'd been talking.

He rested his elbows on his knees. "Quiet."

"Mhm."

"I like it after everyone leaves."

"So do I."

"No expectations."

"No media."

"No meetings."

"No Ben."

He chuckled. "I hadn't considered that last one."

"It might be the biggest advantage."

"Possibly."

Outside the glass beyond the far end of the arena, snow drifted lazily beneath the parking-lot lights.

"Think we'll get stuck in Denver tomorrow?" Noah asked.

"Probably. But it's one of the better hotels we stay in."

"Hmmm," he grunted.

"You disagree?"

"I definitely disagree."

"You haven't even asked my opinion."

"I've played against you long enough."

"So?"

"So I know when you're wrong."

I laughed.

He smiled into his bottle, looking entirely pleased with himself.

For reasons I couldn't quite explain, that made me laugh again.

The sound echoed softly through the empty arena.

Noah glanced over. "What?"

"Nothing."

He narrowed his eyes. "I don't believe you."

"I know."

He shook his head. "You're strange."

"I've heard that."

"Frequently?"

"More than you'd think."

He gave the smallest nod. "Seems fair."

The Zamboni disappeared through the tunnel.

The rink fell even quieter. Neither of us moved or seemed to notice the minutes slipping by. If someone had asked me then why I was still sitting there, I probably would have said we were resting after practice. It sounded perfectly reasonable. I wasn't entirely sure I believed it anymore.

Eventually Noah sighed. "You ever have one of those weeks where your brain refuses to cooperate?"

"I've had a few."

He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Tired?"

"A bit."

"You've looked distracted."

He let out a quiet laugh. "Have I?"

"Little."

He stared out over the empty rink. "I've just..." His shoulders lifted. "...had a lot on my mind."

"You okay?"

A long pause. "I honestly don't know."

That answer surprised me. Noah usually knew exactly where he stood, on the ice or off it, with everyone.

Seeing him uncertain felt... Wrong.

He rubbed at his forehead again. A loose strand of blond hair had fallen across his eyes. Without thinking, I reached over.

Brushed it back.

My fingers barely touched his temple. A tiny gesture. Nothing more.

Noah stopped moving. He looked at me. Our eyes met.

Neither of us looked away.

One second. Then another. The arena disappeared. The Zamboni. The empty seats. The distant scrape of blades against fresh ice.

Everything narrowed until there was only the space between us.

I wasn't planning to kiss him, wasn't even considering it.

Then... I was.

I leaned forward. Barely. He didn't move.

Our lips met. Soft. Careful. One heartbeat. Maybe two. Nothing hurried.

Nothing demanding. Just... Curious.

As instinctive as making the obvious pass before either player realized it was there.

Then I pulled back.

Immediately.

Every muscle in my body remembered how to breathe at exactly the wrong moment.

The silence returned.

Only now it felt entirely different.

For a second neither of us moved.

Noah was still looking at me.

Blue eyes wide.

His mouth was slightly open, as though he'd forgotten what words were. I suspected I looked much the same. The silence stretched.

It wasn't awkward. It wasn't regret. That would almost have been easier.

The kiss hadn't been bad. That was the problem.

If it had been... this would have been much simpler.

My brain finally lurched back into life. "Oh—"

At exactly the same moment Noah said, "Sorry."

We stopped.

Looked at one another.

Then, together— "Sorry."

Another silence.

I rubbed the back of my neck. "That..."

Noah stared out at the ice. "...Probably shouldn't have happened."

"...Probably."

The word hung between us.

Neither of us said I wish I hadn't.

Neither of us said It was a mistake.

Neither of us, I realized, seemed capable of lying quite that convincingly.

The Zamboni continued its slow circuit below us.

Its engine suddenly seemed extraordinarily loud.

Finally Noah stood.

Then sat down again.

He exhaled through his nose.

His expression changed.

I recognized it immediately.

It was the face he wore during video review.

The one that appeared whenever a game became a problem to solve instead of an experience to feel.

Right.

Problem-Solving Noah had arrived.

He folded his arms. "Nobody can know."

I nodded immediately. "Definitely not."

"The media—"

"Would have a field day."

"The team."

"I don't need twenty idiots trying to play relationship counsellor."

He almost smiled. "Ben."

"We're counting him separately."

"Fair."

He ticked points off on his fingers. "Coach."

"He'd tell us not to let it become a distraction."

"He'd be right."

"The season."

"The standings."

"Playoffs."

"Our line."

"Our jobs."

"Our reputations."

Each reason came quickly.

Efficiently.

Like drawing up defensive assignments before a faceoff.

One concern after another. Logical. Organized. Practical.

Neither of us mentioned the obvious question.

What exactly had just happened?

Neither of us seemed ready for that conversation.

Footsteps echoed somewhere beneath the stands.

We both looked toward the tunnel.

Ben wandered into view carrying one glove.

He frowned. "Huh." He looked around the seating area. "Thought I left the other one..."

His eyes landed on us.

At precisely the same moment Noah and I stood.

And, with remarkable synchronization, took one large step away from each other.

Far enough apart that no reasonable person could possibly think we'd been doing anything.

Which, in retrospect, probably made it worse.

Ben's gaze followed the movement.

Then traveled from me...

...to Noah...

...and back again.

"...Everything okay?"

"Yep."

"Yeah."

Our answers landed on top of one another.

Far too quickly.

Far too innocently.

Ben's eyebrows climbed a fraction.

"...Right."

He bent to retrieve his missing glove from beneath one of the seats.

Straightened.

Looked at us one last time.

Then wandered back toward the tunnel without another word.

The silence he left behind somehow felt even louder than before.

Noah rubbed a hand across his face.

"I should..."

"Yeah."

"I'll see you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow."

He disappeared down one corridor.

I took the other.

Halfway to the parking lot I realized my heart still hadn't slowed down.

We'd been teammates under pressure.

We'd faced hostile crowds.

Television cameras.

Overtime.

None of that had ever made me feel remotely like this.

I let out a quiet breath.

We were terrible liars.

Which, unfortunately... Ben already knew.