Across the Rink

Claire tightened the laces of her worn sneakers, looping them into double knots before stepping onto the rink's edge. The cold air bit at her cheeks, but she welcomed it. It made her feel awake, alive -a small comfort in a world where she mostly preferred to blend in.

From her spot behind the bench, she pulled out the battered clipboard she always carried, scribbling down notes as the team skated drills across the ice. She wasn't a coach, not officially. Just the girl who organized plays, taped sticks and iced bruises. Invisible to most of the. And that was fine. That was safe.

Coach Willis barked instructions from the sidelines, his voice echoing off the plexiglass. Claire's brown eyes scanned the ice automatically, noting missteps, and missed opportunities. She barely realized she was doing it anymore - analyzing, anticipating, reading the flow of the game like a second language.

And then there was him.

Kendall Hart.

Tall, fast, with a grin that could split the world if he ever bothered to show it. His dark curls were mostly hidden under his helmet, but Claire had seen them once during warm-ups, tousled, wild, like he hadn't bothered trying to tame them. His eyes, when they weren't shadowed by the helmets cage, were an impossible shade of blue - sharp, cold, striking.

Not that Claire had been looking.

Much.

Kendall skated hard toward the net, weaving past two defenders like they weren't even there. He made it look easy - effortless - but Claire knew better. You didn't move like that unless you were running from something. She recognized the way he played: angry, reckless, fast enough to try and outrun whatever waited for him off the ice.

She understood it more than she'd ever admit.

A sharp whistle cut through the air. Practice was over. Players clattered off the ice, laughing, tossing insults, knocking shoulders. Claire stood quietly as they passed, invisible again, until -

"Claire!" Coach Willis waved her over. "Hart tweaked his wrist. Can you take a look?"

Her heart thudded unreasonably hard against her ribs. "Sure."

Kendall sat alone on the bench, helmet off now, dark curls damp with sweat. Up close, he was too much - taller than she remembered, stronger, and that stupid, perfect half-smile tugging at his mouth like he didn't even know he was doing it.

"Hey," he said, voice low, a little raspy.

Claire cleared her throat, forcing herself into professional mode. "Which wrist?"

He held out his right arm without a word. She knelt in front of him, careful not to meet his eyes, and gently pressed along the tendons. His skin was warm under her fingers.

"No swelling," she murmured. "Probably just strained. You should ice it tonight."

Kendall didn't move. He just watched her with that unsettling, too-intense gaze.

"You're good at this," he said finally.

Claire blinked, thrown off, "At what?"

"Taking care of people." He said it so simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Heat crawled up her neck. She busied herself repacking the medical kit. "It's nothing."

"It's not," Kendall said, standing. He towered over her, casting a shadow she wasn't sure she wanted to step out from under.

Before she could think of a response, he was already walking away, stick slung casually over his shoulder, leaving her there wither her heart hammering and her clipboard clutched too tightly in her hands.

For someone who spent her whole life trying not to be noticed, Claire had the sinking feeling that Kendall Hart had seen right through her.

And worse - she wasn't sure she wanted to disappear this time.