I scrunch my nose at him, and then it’s my turn on the give-and-go drill. I work through it effortlessly, passing to Dorian at the goal line as I sprint for the hash marks. I get the return pass from Dorian and change directions seamlessly, curving toward the low slot with my eyes fixed on Colie’s through his mask. I fake one way, then put the puck over his other shoulder with a wrist shot so quick it has the whole team whooping. I take my spot in the feeder line at the back of the net and wait for Cauler to make it back over to me.
My heart is hammering against my rib cage.
Cauler’s shot rings off the pipe on his turn, but he doesn’t seem concerned when he rejoins me.
“You’re reaching,” I say. “Even Gretzky camped.”
“You would compare yourself to Gretzky.” That touch of disdain is back in his voice and my heart sinks with it. He’s been less obvious with his hatred since Saturday, but it still comes through every once in a while. “But it doesn’t help your case. He played box lacrosse, too.”
“You saying you never pick up a lacrosse stick in the summer?”
“’Course I do.” He shrugs dismissively. “Lot of hockey players do.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“Loyalty, Your Grace.”
I take my turn receiving the pass and giving it back before heading to the blue line. My pulse is still buzzing under my skin by the time Cauler is beside me again.
“So,” he says. “You like my dimples, huh?”
I almost choke on my own saliva. “What the—” I splutter, sliding back from him a step. Talk about an abrupt and ridiculous topic change.
Cauler laughs, just this single ha! at my reaction. His smile puts those dimples in his cheeks, and I have to look away. “That game is made to embarrass people into getting over themselves. All that blushing proves you’ve got a soul at least.”
“Do I?” I keep my voice level, scrambling to reassemble whatever’s left of my dignity.
“It’s very small and tarnished beyond repair, but yeah, it’s there.”
He slings his stick across his shoulders and drapes his arms over it. I put mine butt-down on the ice, hands clutching the blade, and rest my chin on my gloves. We stare at each other. Cauler chews on his mouth guard, half of it wrapped around his cheek like a fishhook. He’s one of the few Royals who choose to wear one. Probably ’cause of that bad concussion that almost ended his playing career a few years ago.
Even with all those insults I threw at him the other day, the caution he plays with now is really his only flaw as a hockey player. He’s still got grit and can take a check as well as anybody, but he doesn’t like to risk a check from behind and go for loose pucks along the boards unless an opponent gets there first. Especially by the benches.
Not that I really blame him. When you take a hit from behind so bad the sound of your head ringing off the stanchion can be heard throughout the arena, fracturing a vertebra and putting you out for months, it’d be more concerning if you didn’t have some lingering fear.
Cauler takes in a long breath, shoulders rising with it, and opens his mouth to speak.
“Will you two dusters stop making heart eyes at each other and shoot some goddamn puck?” someone calls from the goal line.
The others join in the chirping until Coach can get them back under control. I use the distraction to put some distance between me and Cauler. I swear the air between us was starting to feel dangerously electric for a second there, but I know it’s all in my head. A few forced compliments aren’t going to make him suddenly fall in love with me. There’s still barely restrained malice behind every look and word he has for me.
But I catch him looking at me again a few minutes later.
SIX
OCTOBER
The first week of October officially brings the coaches into our daily lives. Our strength and conditioning coach takes stock of our progress in the weight room in the morning. We start having all our meals in the players’ lounge with the assistant coaches to make sure we’re sticking to the nutrition plan and not gorging on bacon and home fries. Colie’s goalie coach, Coach Hein, sticks her head into our classes throughout the day to see if we actually go to them.
The temperature outside has been creeping steadily downward all week, to the point where it’s not a relief to step into the cold arena anymore. Still, October is my favorite month of the year, not only because it’s the start of the hockey season. The woods are turning red and orange, and the air smells like Halloween.