lesbian relationship

The rink in Minneapolis smells like cold air and old victories —You came because Megan asked. “Just swing by practice with me,” she’d said. “Dad’s running late, and Dani needs a stick blade.”

You didn’t plan to stay. But now you’re pressed against the glass, watching the scrimmage like it’s the playoffs.

Number 7 — Daniela — cuts across the ice, sharp as a knife. She’s all precision and confidence, controlling the puck like it owes her something. A quick fake, a shift of her shoulders, and the goalie’s down before she even shoots. The puck hits the back of the net with that satisfying thunk.

When the whistle blows, the players start skating off. Dani tugs off her helmet and shakes out her dark curls, flushed and grinning. Megan waves her over from the bench, holding the replacement stick blade like a peace offering.

“Took you long enough,” Dani says as she steps off the ice, her skates clacking against the rubber floor.

Megan shrugs. “Traffic. And Dad made me stop for coffee, so you can thank him.”

Dani laughs under her breath, but then her eyes find you — and that smile shifts. A little smug. A little too knowing. “Didn’t expect to see you here,” she says.

You shrug. “Didn’t have much of a choice. Megan dragged me along.”

“Right,” she says, drawing the word out. “Because you definitely hate watching me play.”

You raise your eyebrows nonchalantly “I just like to watch hockey in general”

Dani raises an eyebrow. “Keep telling yourself that.”

“Cocky as always. It’s like when you celebrate before the puck even hits the net. Real cocky, don’t you think?”

She smirks, stepping a little closer. “It’s not cocky if I don’t miss.”

Megan groans. “Oh my god, are we really doing this again?”

But Dani isn’t looking at Megan anymore. She’s still watching you — eyes green and sharp, voice lower now. “You play, right?”

“Sometimes.”

For a second, it’s quiet — the kind of silence that hums. The rest of the team filters off the ice, the sound of laughter and sticks fading into the locker room. Megan’s phone buzzes, breaking the moment.

“Ugh,” she mutters. “Dad needs me upstairs. Try not to throw hands, okay?” She gives you both a look before walking off.

The rink is nearly empty now. Just you, Dani, and the sound of the compressors rumbling under the ice. She sets her stick down and leans on it, eyes still locked on you.

“You really don’t like me, do you?” she asks, but there’s a teasing edge in her voice.

You laugh softly. “You think that’s what this is?”

She grins. “No. I think you like pretending you don’t.”

You’re not sure what to say to that. Your heartbeat’s too loud in your ears, and the air between you feels warmer than it should. She takes a small step closer — just enough to make you notice.

“Next open ice,” she says, voice soft but certain, “don’t bring your skates.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh? You finally realized I’d smoke you out there?”

Dani snorts. “Please. I just figured I could use your ‘journalistic expertise.’”

You tilt your head, trying not to grin. “My what now?”

“You’re studying journalism, right?” she says, leaning casually on her stick. “I need a few photos for a feature the league’s doing.”

You blink, caught off guard by the shift in tone.

“So, what — you’re hiring me as your personal photographer now?”

Dani shrugs, pretending indifference but failing just a little. “Let’s call it… mutually beneficial. You get portfolio shots. I get someone who won’t make me look like I’m mid–faceplant.”

You pretend to think. “Do I get creative control?”

That earns a real grin, wide and amused. “Sure. As long as you get my good side.”

“Do you have one?”

She laughs, shaking her head as she grabs her bag. “Guess you’ll have to find out.”

She walks off toward the locker room, the echo of her skates fading. You know that she’s not only actually for a “photo shoot”, even if you two act like you can’t stand each other in front of people, you flirt and text each other behind closed doors