Page 200 of Rookie Attraction

“You need help there, cowboy?” Sel teases.

I give him my best finger.

“I got over a shoulder injury, I think I can handle a pain in my ass. And my hips. And my thighs.”

“Are you going to skate bow-legged too?”

Ignoring my aches, I pounce on Sel, pinning him to the bed.

“As much as that move turns me on,” he chuckles. “We’re going to be late.”

“I guess being older means you’re more practical too.”

Sel playfully nips my lips, but when I follow his mouth, he shakes his head.

“Later.”

I pout.

“We’ll have plenty of time for that now that we’ll be living together. In our place.”

White-hot lightning races up my spine.

“Sel, your dirty talk is the best.”

Despite Sel's teasing—and even though my body aches like a motherfucker—I walk into the training arena an hour later with a confident step. The cold hits first, the damp bite of rink air. I breathe it in deep and roll my shoulders. There’s no catch, no twinge, just a smooth, strong rotation.

I’m so fucking ready to be back.

“Baran!” Berg spots me first, his face breaking into a grin as I step into the locker room. “Welcome back, man!”

“Thanks, Cap.”

The greetings come one by one from my teammates, mostly fist bumps and chirps about whether this feels like my first day of training. I give it right back to them and that’s when I notice it. The lightness. It’s in the way guys are laughing, loose and easy. Conversations flow without that dreaded undercurrent of tension that went on for months. Brady’s gone and I catch myself being surprised by the difference. It’s wild how one toxic asshole can infect an entire group, put everyone a half-step off their game, always looking over their shoulder.

Not anymore.

Even St. Clare is relaxed, doubled over laughing at one of Sorensen’s stories. I scan the room and catch sight of Sel. Both of us have lazy grins on our faces. Not surprising given what happened last night.

Don’t start thinking about sex. Getting hard right now is not the kind of comeback I want to make.

Sel’s in his uniform, helmet tucked under his arm. When he sees me looking, the corner of his mouth lifts. It’s enough. Enough to say yes, baby, we’re back.

I grin and tap my stick twice against the floor.

Let’s go.

Practice is hard, but satisfying. My legs are strong, my edges bite clean into the ice, and my shoulder holds up through every drill and every hard stop against the boards.

And me and Sel? It’s like I was never gone. He moves; I’m already there. He closes the gap; I’m rotating over. Our positioning is instinctive, seamless, two parts of the same machine.

“Yes!” Range shouts, his voice cutting across the ice. “That’s it! That’s what I want to see!”

The next drill is a two-on-one coming at us, with Berg and Tullmore flying down the ice with speed, testing our reads. I take the high man, skating backward, controlling my gap. It keeps Berg honest and forces him to decide.

Sel reads it instantly. Drops lower, takes away the passing lane.

Berg tries to thread it through anyway…