Page 59 of Icy Pucking Play

"Fine." I adjust my grip on the cups, trying to look more confident than I feel. "Just...strategizing."

"About walking to Ms. Bennett's desk?"

"It's complicated."

He gives me a knowing look. "Usually is with her. Did you see her piece on the youth hockey league last month? Made my wife cry."

Great. Perfect. Because I needed another reminder of how good Sophie is at turning real moments into beautiful words.

How good she is at seeing people.

At seeing me.

Taking a deep breath, I finally make it to the elevator. The office is nearly empty at this hour with just a few desk lamps creating islands of light in the darkness.

Sophie's cubicle glows like a beacon, and I can see her silhouette as she works—hair piled messily on top of her head, probably wearing another stolen piece of my practice gear.

“For fuck’s sake,” I mumble under my breath to myself. “You’re a pro hockey player. You've faced down slap shots moving at ninety miles per hour. You can handle one conversation about boundaries with…"

I round the corner to her cubicle and lose my entire train of thought.

Because sheiswearing my practice gear—specifically, my old warmup jacket with DANIELS across the back—and she's got a pencil stuck through her bun, and she's doing that thing where she chews her bottom lip while she writes, and...

"Hi," she says softly, not looking up.

"Hi." Buy another vowel there, Daniels. "I brought coffee."

"You mentioned that." She still won't meet my eyes.

"Right." I set her cup down carefully. "Vanilla latte. Extra shot because it's late."

"Thanks."

The silence stretches between us, heavy with all the things we're not saying.

"So," I start at the same time she says, "Listen…"

We both stop. Start again. Stop again.

"This is going well," I mutter.

That gets a small laugh from her. "Very professional."

"Is that what we're being? Professional?"

She finally looks at me, and the uncertainty in her eyes makes my chest hurt.

"I don't know what we're being," she admits. "That's kind of the problem.”

I lean against her desk, trying to look casual and probably failing miserably. "We could try being honest."

"Honest?" She spins in her chair to face me. "Okay. Honestly? I'm freaking out."

"About?"

"About this!" She gestures between us. "About how I'm supposed to write objectively about your family when I can't stop thinking about how you kiss me. About how I'm supposed to maintain boundaries when I'm wearing your clothes and going to your family dinners and teaching your daughter math with hockey stats."

"You're good at the math thing, though."

---