Page 5 of Pucked On Camera

The last echo of a slamming locker door at the rink fades, and I'm alone. The lingering scent of icy menthol and sweat floats through the air. With a flick of the wrist, I secure my ponytail and shuffle through the silence, my sneakers leaving soft whispers against the polished concrete floors.

The crisp Chicago night bites at my cheeks as I push through the exit. It's late; the parking garage is practically deserted, save for a few scattered cars. That's when I see him—Riley Watson, leaning nonchalantly against his sleek black Audi Q7 like he's waiting for something inevitable.

"Need a lift?" His voice cuts through the cold, a confident grin playing on his lips.

I stop short, feeling suddenly conscious of how small I am next to his towering frame. "Thanks, but I'm good. Don't accept rides from strangers."

"Stranger?" Riley straightens up, laughing softly. "Come on, Amelia, we're practically coworkers."

"Practically doesn't cut it." I take a step back, trying to ignore my racing pulse .

"Fair enough," he says, holding his hands up in surrender. "But you know, it's quite the walk to the 'L' station. You know this neighborhood can be sketchy at night."

"Sketchy?" I arch an eyebrow with a crooked smile. "Is that your professional assessment?"

"Absolutely." He winks, the blue of his eyes almost glowing in the dim light. "Hockey player by day, crime analyst by night."

"Sounds like a terrible TV show," I retort, though a smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. "But thanks for the concern. I can handle myself."

"Never doubted it for a second," Riley replies, his gaze lingering on me longer than he probably should, making gooseflesh rise on my skin.

"Goodnight, Riley," I say, turning away before the heat in his gaze draws me closer to him.

"Goodnight, Amelia." His voice sticks in my head all the way home, and I can’t tell if I’m intrigued or annoyed.

***

The next day, it’s back to business as usual.

I'm shoving jerseys into a large laundry bin when a towel lands at my feet, followed by a chorus of snickers. I don't need to look up to know it's on purpose.

"Oops," drawls one of the Blades from behind me, his voice dripping with mock innocence. "Butterfingers."

Another towel falls. And another. The locker room’s echo carries their amusement like a taunt. My cheeks burn, not just with embarrassment but anger too. I bend down, keeping my expression neutral. I've learned not to give them the satisfaction of a reaction. I’m nothing but professional here.

"Hey, towel girl, you missed one," another chimes in.

Just as I'm about to reach for the latest towel casualty, a firm voice cuts through the locker room. "Knock it off, guys."

Riley's standing there, his eyes fixed on his teammates. There's an edge in their captain’s voice that brooks no argument.

"Awe, Cap, we're not hurting anyone," one of the players protests.

"Doesn't matter. Leave her alone," Riley commands. This time, there's a note of finality that silences any further objections.

The room quiets down, the only sounds now are the hum of fluorescent lights and the faint drip of a leaky showerhead. I keep my gaze fixed on the towels in my arms, not willing to meet his eyes.

"Thanks," I mutter under my breath, unsure if he hears me over the pounding of my heart. I turn away, focusing on the task at hand, trying not to think about how easy it would be to get lost in those blue eyes.

"Anytime," I hear him say before the sound of his steps fade away, leaving me with the thought of the fact that he just defended me and a whole lot of confusion.

I continue on with my tasks while the scent of sweat and disinfectant lingers until the chatter dwindles and I feel the weight of gazes fading away. My shoulders relax, grateful for the reprieve.

Stealing a glance toward the locker room door, I catch Riley watching the last of his team disappear through the doorway. He's leaning against a locker, arms crossed, a silent guard in a room that still echoes of what just went down.

Our eyes meet. I let a smile—small, genuine—flicker across my face. It's a thank you, a recognition of what he did. He nods once, the corner of his mouth lifting in a half-smile that doesn't quite reach those piercing bright eyes, before he turns away.

Practice days are always a lot busier for me with additional tasks to be done. The sharp slap of a puck against the boards ricochets through The Blade's Edge as I deliver clean towels to the players bench. Just as I’m placing the towels down, I hear voices coming from the ice.

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