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Tanner adjusts the ice pack against his wrist and leans back, his arm grazing mine as he watches the play. “I’d say we have to stop meeting like this, but I think we both know that’s not going to happen.”
“Occupational hazard,” I add, like that explains anything.
“Right.” He gives me a crooked smile that makes me feel like we’re sharing a joke only the two of us understand. “Strictly professional.”
I ignore the way my pulse kicks up and sneak a peek at the penalty clock. “Thirty seconds. Keep that on until the door opens.”
“There you go,” he says. “Getting all bossy again.”
But there’s no bite to it, just amusement and a hint of gratitude he doesn’t bother hiding as he moves the towel and holds the ice pack more firmly against his wrist.
We wait out the rest of the penalty, our eyes on the clock. Tanner jiggles his knee, energy coiling back up as his time ticks away.
“Hey,” he says, quieter now. “Thanks. For earlier. And, uh, this.”
He holds the ice pack out. I take it from him, our fingers grazing one last time before I stow it under the bench. “Try not to give me a reason to do it again.”
He shoots me that crooked grin, and, predictably, my stomach does that weird flip-floppy thing again. “What’s the fun in that?”
The PA blares the Super Mario jingle, the door swings open and he’s on his feet in a flash, stick already in hand. As he steps back onto the ice, he taps the boards once, right where my knuckles are resting, before pushing off and rejoining the rush.
It’s a struggle, but I don’t let myself watch him go. Instead, my eyes do a quick sweep of the glass, the benches, the angles I’ve already memorized without meaning to. One camera’s trained on the puck. Another is on the face-off dot. None of them are pointed my way.
Thank fuck.
I hate that I’ve already gotten used to checking. Hate even more that it feels automatic now, another part of the job.
I tell myself not to overthink it. Why would anyone care about the penalty box? A guy serving two minutes. A staffer doing his rounds. The usual stuff. Nothing to see here.
I grab another water bottle and keep moving as the game rolls on like it always does, both teams knotted up at two goals apiece. The score stays locked and the box stays empty until the third period is almost over, when—surprise, surprise—Tanner gets two for tripping Ottawa’s all-star left wing.
“Aww, and you were doing so well,” I tease as I open the door and step aside to give him room to enter.
“That was not a trip,” he grumbles, slumping onto the bench and tugging his helmet loose. “I wasn’t anywhere near him.”
“How’s the wrist?” I ask, keeping my tone neutral, like I ask every guy in the box about whatever’s taped or swollen.
His eyes dart past me to the glass. “Not now.”
I track his gaze to the camera that’s swung our way, and that familiar prickle crawls up my spine.
Fuck. Why the hell is it on us?
I take a quick step back and pretend to be engrossed in folding a towel that doesn’t need folding. They’re probably doing a quick shot of Tanner since a penalty with less than two minutes left in a tie game is kind of a big deal.
That’s what I tell myself, anyway.
The clock is winding down fast, under ten seconds now, and the ice feels crowded in that frantic, end-of-game way where everyone’s skating like their next mistake is going to wind up on the highlight reel.
Tanner leans forward on the bench, elbows on his knees.
“Come on,” he mutters. “Fucking clear it.”
The puck pops loose instead. Lucas snags it at the blue line and takes off, streaking toward Ottawa’s zone. I straighten without meaning to, towel forgotten in my hands.
“Holy shit,” I say.
Tanner’s head snaps up. “Go, go, go—”
Lucas cuts inside a defender, pulls the puck across his body, and fires. The red light comes on a split second before the horn blares.
For a beat, I just stare. Then the place explodes.
“No way,” I yell, slapping the glass.
Tanner’s already halfway to his feet. “That’s in, right?”
“It’s in all right,” I say, laughing.
Tanner grins and smacks the top of the boards with his palm. “Hell yeah.”
We don’t even think about it. He sticks his good hand out and I grab it, some weird half-shake, half-clap that turns into us bumping shoulders and hopping in place like idiots.
“Shorthanded.” Tanner shakes his head. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“I’m absolutely not kidding you,” I say. “That really happened.”
His hand comes out on reflex. “Again?”
“Again,” I echo, already grinning.
We repeat our weird little handshake dance, faster this time. Slap, grab, release, like we planned it instead of making it up on the spot. I’m laughing, Tanner’s laughing, and I’m vaguely aware of how unprofessional this probably looks but I can’t bring myself to care.
Then I catch the reflection in the glass.
The camera. Still right there. Still trained on us.
I drop my hands and clear my throat, reaching for the towel again like I didn’t just lose my damn mind. Tanner follows my line of sight and winces.
“Fuck,” he groans.
Out on the ice, the bench pours over the boards. Helmets fly, Lucas gets mobbed. Tanner exhales and drops back onto the bench, his grin fading into something more careful.
“Yeah,” I agree. “Double fuck.”
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