Page 27 of Cold Front
A few of my teammates were already scattered across the ice. Micah and Hunter were by the intermediate group, chatting with kids who looked eager to show off. Nico and Roman laughed as a couple of advanced skaters attempted to one-up each other in a race. It was the biggest turnout we’d ever had for a clinic, and if the constant buzz of conversation was any indication, we had Eli and Asher’s marketing efforts to thank for that.
Speaking of?—
Asher’s voice cut through the noise before I even saw him. “There’s our fearless captain.” He grinned as he and Eli skated toward me, hands shoved into his hoodie pocket. He fit in effortlessly, throwing a nod to Micah and clapping Roman on the back as they passed. He’d been supporting the Mavericks for years, so this was just another day for him.
Eli, though—he didn’t just look around. He absorbed everything, that sharp, quiet focus of his taking in every detail like he was committing it to memory. The overhead lights caught in his blond curls, turning them almost gold, and when he turned his head, the blue of his jacket made his eyes look even brighter.
Something twisted low in my gut, sharp and unexpected. I never noticed shit like that about people—not about guys, anyway. But with Eli, it was impossible not to.
I forced my gaze away, tightening my grip on my gloves like that would steady something in me that had no business being unsteady.
I shoved the thought aside, adjusting the strap on my glove. “Big turnout.”
“Told you the marketing would work.” Asher bumped Eli’s shoulder. “And we’re about to get some solid shots for the assignment.”
Eli nodded. “Today’s gonna be great. We’ll have enough material to put together a killer campaign.” His gaze flicked to me. “You ready?”
“Yeah,” I muttered, focus dropping to the laces of my skates.
Coach’s whistle cut through the noise. “All right, let’s get started! Beginners over here, intermediates in the middle, advanced on the far end.” He gestured across the ice, directing the kids into their groups. “Team, pair up and take charge of your assigned level. We’re making hockey players today.”
His words were directed at us—the Mavericks. The team. My guys.
As I looked around, I could see the rest of the squad already moving, cracking jokes, or offering tips to the kids. Micah and Hunter had already corralled their group of intermediates, while Nico and Hunter were talking strategy with the advanced skaters. It felt natural, like we’d done this a hundred times before, but there was something different today. A buzz in the air, the anticipation. It was contagious.
I skated toward one of the beginner groups, which Roman and I would be coaching. A few kids already wobbled on their skates, gripping the boards like lifelines. Others bounced on their blades, ready to go.
A boy no older than six clung to the barrier, his lower lip caught between his teeth. His name tag read ‘Jamal.’
I crouched down in front of him, keeping my voice light. “You planning on holding that wall hostage all day?”
Jamal peered up at me, his eyes wide beneath the oversized helmet. He shook his head, but his grip on the barrier tightened. “I don’t wanna fall.”
I smiled, glancing down at his small feet. “Everyone falls. You’re not the first. The trick is getting back up.”
He glanced uncertainly at his skates, then at the ice, before his gaze darted back to me. “What if I can’t get back up?”
“You will,” I assured him. “And if you don’t, I’ll help you.”
There was a long pause, and for a second, I thought he might back out. Then, slowly, he lifted his hands from the barrier, looking at my gloved fingers before placing his small hand in mine. He was still tense, his body language unsure, but he was ready to try.
I helped him onto the ice, and his legs wobbled immediately, like a newborn deer on shaky legs. He took one hesitant step, then another, his arms flailing to keep his balance. I moved backward, steadying him with a firm grip on his hand, but he didn’t stop.
“See? You’re skating,” I said, my voice encouraging.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then his face lit up—he straightened his posture, a smile slowly spreading across his face. “I’m doing it,” he whispered to himself, a tiny laugh escaping him as his confidence began to build.
Nearby, Eli raised his camera. The sight sent a flicker of something through my chest—annoyance at first, then something else. Awareness. I didn’t like being in photos, and knowing he was documenting this made me stiff. Too conscious of my posture, the way I moved. But then another kid called my name, and another, and somewhere along the way, I stopped caring about the lens following me.
A girl in bright pink gloves tugged at my jersey. “Coach Niall, can you show me how to do that spinny thing?”
I huffed a laugh. “A pivot?”
She nodded, blonde ponytail bouncing.
“All right, watch closely.” I demonstrated, turning sharply on my edges. A chorus of“whoa!”and“cool!”followed, the kind of enthusiasm you couldn’t fake.
The shutter clicked again. This time, I didn’t mind.
