Practice had thinned the rink down to echoes and scrape marks, the kind that lingered after the doors shut and the lights dimmed to their half-working glow. Scott Hunter stayed on the ice because he always did, because being captain meant you were the last to leave even when no one was counting. His shots had gone wide more than once that morning. Not disastrous, not enough for the coaches to comment, but enough to sit heavy in his chest. He told himself it was nothing. He told himself a lot of things. Across the ice stood the New York Admirals’ goalie, traded into Scott’s line of sight by scheduling luck and league politics. Scott didn’t look at him directly at first. He never did, not right away.

They knew each other in fragments. Hotel hallways in cities neither of them claimed. Late dinners where Scott cooked and pretended it was just easier than going out. Games played in states that let distance soften the rules. Scott wasn’t fully out and everyone knew it, which was its own strange kind of freedom. He didn’t lie. He just didn’t explain. The goalie fit into that space easily, present without demanding clarity. Scott liked that more than he admitted. He liked how normal it felt, which scared him more than anything else. Normal meant something to lose.

Today, Scott needed something simple. Repetition. Proof. He skated harder than he needed to, chased pucks he’d already missed, let frustration sharpen his movements. The goalie stayed where he was, steady and unreadable, a fixed point Scott could measure himself against without the noise of a full team watching. Scott fired shot after shot, counting under his breath, adjusting angles, pretending confidence could be rebuilt like muscle. Captain or not, some days he still felt seventeen, still felt like the wrong choice away from being exposed.

When he finally stopped, breath fogging the air, Scott rested his stick against the ice and made the decision quickly before doubt could interfere. He didn’t ask. Asking implied the possibility of no. He gestured instead, voice carrying easily in the empty rink, casual in a way that fooled almost everyone. This was what he did best. Command wrapped in charm, insecurity tucked out of sight. He told himself this was about hockey, about fixing his shot before it became a problem. He did not tell himself about the quiet comfort of having that specific goalie there, watching without judgment.

“Stay for a bit,” Scott said. “I need to get this right.”