Page 23 of My Athlete Neighbor

Social media's going crazy. Everyone's blaming the missing puck. Want me to handle it?

He ignored it, just like he'd been ignoring the stream of messages from well-meaning neighbors back home. Mrs. Peterson had sent a photo of what appeared to be an entire collection of lucky scarves in progress. Mr. Collins suggesteddoing his backward-walking ritual remotely via FaceTime with him. Even Marcus had texted a statistical analysis of their performance correlation with and without "magical artifacts present."

The worst part was, Kane was starting to wonder if they were right.

He'd been distracted all game, his timing just slightly off, his decisions a fraction too slow. Every time he'd lined up for a face-off or set up for a one-timer, he'd found himself thinking about Allison. Wondering if she understood what was happening on the ice, if she was proud or disappointed or—

"Get it together, Norris," he muttered to his reflection in the dark window. Outside, Pittsburgh's lights blurred in a late-night rain that matched his mood.

His phone buzzed again. Dmitri this time:Is not end of world, Captain. Even Baryshnikov had bad performances. Though maybe yours because heart was dancing different routine, yes?

Kane dropped onto the bed, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes until he saw stars. The game tape would be brutal tomorrow—Coach Vicky's analysis picking apart every missed pass, every blown coverage, every moment his head wasn't in the game. She'd been right in her pre-game speech about individual distractions costing team victories.

But was Allison a distraction?

The thought hit him like an open-ice check, leaving him breathless. Because the truth was, when he thought about her, he didn't just think about missed plays and divided attention. He thought about her laugh during story time, the way she hummed while reviewing books. He thought about shared coffee in the morning and stolen kisses in the gym and the way she looked at him like she saw past the captain's letters on his jersey.

His phone felt heavy in his hand as he pulled up her contact. It was late, probably too late to call, but his thumb hovered over her name anyway. The team would say he was too focused on her. Coach would say he needed to get his head straight. The media would have a field day with the captain's "lucky charm" affecting his game.

But maybe they were all missing the point.

Because yeah, he'd played badly tonight. But it wasn't because Allison was a distraction—it was because he was trying so hard to prove she wasn't. He'd been so focused on showing everyone that he didn't need luck or superstition or feelings, that he'd forgotten how to just play his game.

The phone rang three times before she answered, her voice soft and slightly rough like she'd been sleeping. "Kane?"

Just hearing her say his name settled something in his chest. "Hey. Did I wake you?"

"No, I was..." A pause, then a quiet admission: "I was watching game highlights. Trying to understand what happened."

"I played like shit."

"Yeah. You seemed off."

"I was trying too hard not to think about you."

The words hung between them, honest in a way that would have scared him a few months ago. Now it just felt like finally getting a pass right after a night of missing the mark.

"Kane..." Her voice was gentle, understanding, and somehow that was worse than criticism.

"I know I need to focus on hockey. The team needs their captain, not some lovesick rookie who can't keep his head in the game."

"Is that what you think you are?"

He flopped back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. "I don't know what I am anymore. When I'm with you, hockey makesmore sense, not less. But tonight I was so busy trying to prove I could play without you there that I forgot how to just play."

"The team doesn't need you to prove anything," she said softly. "They need you to be yourself. And maybe that includes whatever this is between us."

"Coach says—"

"Coach Vicky knows hockey. But she doesn't know us." A rustle of fabric, like she was curling up somewhere comfortable. "Did you know my grandfather used to say the game was better when you played it with your whole heart? Not just the parts that fit in the rulebook."

Kane thought about Dmitri's ballet metaphors, about technical skill and artistic expression. About how the best plays weren't just about systems and strategies, but about instinct and trust and connection.

"I miss you," he said, the words feeling like both a confession and a relief. "Not just the puck or the luck or whatever everyone thinks this is. Just... you."

"I miss you too." He could hear her smile. "Even when you're playing badly."

"Ouch. No mercy for a guy after a tough loss?"

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