The clock above the scoreboard ticks past the moment our practice was supposed to start. Five minutes ago. Now six.

On the ice, the hockey team is still going at it like they have all the time in the world. A couple of them are chasing down a loose puck with the kind of lazy energy that says they're in no hurry to leave. Someone yells something from the bench, followed by a round of laughter that cuts through the cold air.

Coach Mihal stands beside me, arms folded, watching the scene with the tired resignation of a woman who's fought this battle too many times to count.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the buzzer blares through the arena. The sound is sharp, final, and I've never been more grateful for anything in my life.

The hockey players are still shuffling toward the tunnel, laughing, slapping each other's backs, completely oblivious to the chaos they're leaving behind.

Someone's stick clatters onto the boards. Someone else yells something about breakfast. I step around a puck near the blue line, then another at the face-off circle, and I can feel my jaw tightening with every stride.

Avery skates up beside me, taking in the mess with a quiet sigh.

My mouth opens before my brain catches up.

"Looks like the hockey team's finished playing with their toys."

The words come out quieter than I meant them to, more to myself than anyone. But in the near-empty arena, every sound carries.

Garrett stops mid-step. So do his teammates.

He turns, slowly, and there's a hint of a smile on his face that's more amused than apologetic. His dark hair is damp from practice, falling across his forehead, and he's still got his gloves off, tucking one under his arm.

Behind Garrett, one of his teammates—the tall one with the perpetual smirk, Dean Di Laurentis—shares a look with another guy I vaguely recognize. The air changes. Some of the team members who'd been heading for the tunnel slow down, watching.

Garrett waits, eyebrows raised, not moving.