The rink was cold in that perfect way — the kind that bit at your nose and burned your lungs on the first breath. Camden Teller laced his skates tight, the leather cutting snug against his ankles as the room hummed with the sounds of the team gearing up. The metallic scrape of blades against tile, sticks tapping, the low rumble of laughter that belonged to guys who’d been up since six and still acted like it was noon.
He rolled his shoulders, shaking off the stiffness that always came with too little sleep. The night hadn’t been long enough, not with Jordan beside him, all soft hair and quiet murmurs. He hadn’t meant for things to get that close — but then again, nothing with her had ever gone according to plan.
“Yo, Teller,” shouted Reese from across the locker room, grinning as he shoved his gloves on. “You look like you got hit by a truck or somethin’.”
Camden smirked, grabbing his stick. “Nah, just livin’ the dream.”
“Yeah, dream must’ve worn you out,” another voice added, and a few of the guys chuckled. He rolled his eyes, brushing off the chirping, but the truth was written all over his face — that kind of calm that came from being with someone who leveled you.
The coach blew the whistle from the ice, and the team spilled out. Camden’s blades cut the rink with practiced ease. The chill steadied him — his breath fogging the air, the echo of pucks hitting boards, the rhythm of sticks on ice — it was like muscle memory took over where the heart refused to quiet down.
“Let’s go, Teller! You’re floatin’!” barked Coach.
Camden kicked into gear, a hard sprint down the wing, catching a pass, snapping it clean into the net. It thudded against the boards — satisfaction. He breathed out slow, skating another lap, letting his mind wander for a split second. He saw her through the glass, sitting by the boards in a hoodie far too big for her. Jordan. Head bent over her phone, one leg tucked under her, hair pulled up.
His pulse kicked up.
He shouldn’t care if the guys noticed — but he did. It was weird, being the guy everyone thought was bulletproof, now glancing toward the stands like a kid looking for approval.
Reese came up beside him mid-drill, grinning. “She’s here again, huh? You serious about that one?”
Camden shoved him lightly with his shoulder. “Shut up and skate.”
Reese laughed, spinning away. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll take that as a yes.”
The whistle blew again — line change. Camden coasted to the bench, leaning against the boards, watching the next line run the drill. His chest rose and fell with steady control, but his mind drifted — to Jordan’s laugh, to how she made the world feel slower, safer. He’d spent years earning everything — every goal, every contract, every ounce of respect in this league — but she made it all feel like it meant something.
He caught her looking up, meeting his eyes through the glass. Just a tiny smile, but it hit harder than any adrenaline rush.
After practice, he tugged off his gloves, sweat darkening his undershirt, hair damp and messy. “Good work today, Teller,” Coach said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Keep that focus. You’re sharp when your head’s in it.”
“Yeah,” Camden said quietly. “I’m in it.”
He lingered a second longer before heading down the tunnel. The air shifted — warmer, quieter — the sound of reporters waiting, cameras, the clatter of skate guards. And then her voice.
“Hey, superstar.”
Jordan was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, eyes soft. “You looked good out there.”
He grinned — that slow, lazy kind of grin that didn’t need words. “You say that like I don’t always.”
She laughed, shaking her head. “Cocky as ever.”
“Confident,” he corrected, walking closer. “There’s a difference.”
“Right,” she said, her tone teasing but her eyes still on him — lingering, warm. “You tired?”
“Little bit,” he admitted, leaning a shoulder against the wall beside her. “Guess I’ll survive.”
“Mm, yeah,” she said. “You always do.” Jordan laughed under her breath, and they walked off side by side, his hand brushing hers for just a second — enough to feel it.