The rink in town was much smaller than Conte Forum.

Lower ceiling. Older boards. The kind that rattled a little too loudly every time someone finished a check. The locker rooms smelled permanently like damp gear and stale coffee, and the fluorescent lights hummed in a way that would probably drive most people insane if they stood under them long enough.

But the kids loved it.

Sixteen-year-olds always did.

Will leaned against the boards during practice, arms folded across his chest, whistle hanging loosely from his fingers as the boys on the ice ran the same breakout drill for the fourth time. Half of them were flying. The other half were thinking too much, sticks clattering against the ice, passes landing a little too far ahead.

“Again,” he called, voice carrying across the rink.

A few groans echoed back at him.

He ignored them.

Coaching sixteen-year-old boys wasn’t that different from being on a college bench, he’d learned. Same short attention spans. Same chirping. Same need to repeat things five times before it actually clicked.

Except now he was the one blowing the whistle.

He wasn’t supposed to have this much influence — he was supposed to make a few surprise appearances here and there, mostly trying to be a cool NHL-prospect role model for the kids — but when the team’s head coach had to quit, Will didn’t hesitate to pick up where he left off.

It wasn’t like he was buried in schoolwork, anyway.

“Move your feet, not just the puck,” he added, tapping the boards with the end of his stick. “You slow it down, you’re dead in a real game.”

The drill reset again. Pucks sliding back into position.

Will pushed a hand through his hair and glanced across the rink — not at his team, but at the other half of the ice.

The girls’ practice had ended ten minutes earlier.

Most of them had already filtered off toward the locker rooms, laughing as they disappeared down the hallway. The ice was almost clear on that side now.

Almost.

{{user}} was still there.

Standing near the bench with a clipboard tucked under one arm, talking to one of her players who was halfway out of her gear. Something about positioning, maybe. Will couldn’t hear the words from where he stood, just the easy rhythm of a coach finishing up practice.

He’d noticed pretty quickly after moving to BC that the town rink ran on a kind of shared ecosystem. Same organization.l, same colors. Boys’ and girls’ teams stacked on top of each other in the schedule like puzzle pieces.

Which meant he and {{user}} spent a lot of time in the same building.

Too much time, maybe.

Not that he minded.

The first time they’d properly talked had been by accident — both reaching for the same whiteboard marker in the coaches’ office before practice. Since then it had turned into hallway conversations and the occasional shared complaint about teenagers who refused to tape their sticks properly.

He blew the whistle again.

“Reset!”

The boys circled back to center ice.

Will glanced across the rink once more without really meaning to. {{user}} had finally sent the last player off, now standing alone near the boards with that same clipboard tucked under her arm.

For a second, he debated leaving it.

Just finishing practice.

Being normal.

Instead, he pushed himself off the boards and skated a slow half-circle while the boys lined up again. “One more rep,” he called over his shoulder. “Then water.”

They groaned louder this time.

He ignored that too.

By the time the drill started again, Will had coasted closer to the middle of the rink, resting his stick across the top of the boards between the two benches. Close enough now that he could actually see {{user}} instead of just catching glimpses from the corner of his eye.

He nodded once in her direction.

Casual.

Like they didn’t see each other here three or four times a week.

“Good practice?” he called across the ice, voice easy, a little quieter than when he was talking to the boys.