Chapter 5: Practice

Ivy POV

"Why did I agree to this?" I muttered, hugging my jacket tighter as I followed Milo through a set of double doors that led into a wall of freezing air. The cold hit me like a slap, seeping straight through denim and resolve. Goosebumps everywhere. I could already tell my fingers would go numb before this was over.

The rink stretched out in front of me, all white ice and looming boards, and it hit differently than watching hockey on some bar TV with the sound muted. This was loud. This was violent, even before anyone had started playing. Every scrape of skate and echo of laughter ricocheted around the cavernous space, chipping away at any idea that this would be a chill morning.

"You said that about the smoothies too," Milo said cheerfully. "And the house. And, if I remember correctly, when you first saw the protein powder."

"I stand by all of it." My voice was sharp, but my teeth were chattering. This place was a refrigerator with better lighting.

A few of the guys were already out on the ice, and the second they spotted me trailing in behind Milo, someone let out a whistle. "Careful, don't lose her under the bench," one of them called. "She's not even the height of a stick."

"I can hear you," I called back, which only made a few of them laugh harder. Whatever. Let them try me. I've survived worse than a bunch of oversized ice nerds.

I found a spot at the boards, arms crossed, trying to look like I belonged somewhere I very clearly didn't. I'd never watched a hockey game in my life, let alone stood rinkside while a pack of overgrown, overconfident boys threw themselves at each other for fun. Within the first two minutes of the practice match starting, someone got checked into the boards hard enough that the entire structure shuddered under my hands. My heart did a weird little jump, and I debated the odds of surviving the rest of the hour without permanent psychological damage.

"Is that… is that normal?" I asked, wincing as another body slammed into the glass a few feet down from me.

"That's Tuesday," Milo said, watching the chaos with the mild interest of someone checking the weather. His breath fogged in the air, totally unbothered.

Someone lost a tooth by the second period — I actually saw it skitter across the ice, followed by a spray of blood that stained a bright, alarming red against the white. I made a small, horrified noise. The guy who'd lost it just spat, grinned with the gap, and skated back into the play like it was nothing.

"Should someone look at that?" I asked, my voice a little higher than I meant it to come out.

"He's fine," Milo said, unbothered. "They heal fast. They're—"

He stopped.

I turned to look at him properly. "They're what?"

"Nothing." Too quick. He kept his eyes on the ice, jaw tight in a way that didn't match the easy tone he'd had a second ago.

"You said something. 'They heal fast, they're…' They're what, Milo?"

"Tough," he said, way too late to sound convincing. "I meant tough."

I narrowed my eyes at him, filing the moment away even as I let it go, mostly because a body slammed into the boards close enough that I flinched backward instead of pressing the question. When I glanced back at Milo, he'd already plastered his easy grin back on, watching the play like nothing had happened at all.

Something about the way he'd caught himself sat wrong in my chest, small and nagging, like an itch I couldn't quite reach. My instincts rarely failed me, and right now, they were humming like live wires.

Out on the ice, Alex broke away from the pack with the puck, and even I, someone who'd learned the rules of hockey exactly forty minutes ago, could tell he was good. He was fast and controlled, weaving through bodies twice his size like they were standing still. He scored, and the guys on his side erupted, banging their sticks against the ice in some kind of ritual applause. The sound was thunderous and primal. I almost cheered but caught myself.

He skated a lazy circle afterward, and his eyes met mine at the boards before I could pretend I hadn't been watching. He didn't smile, not exactly, but something in his expression shifted, and my stupid traitor heart reacted like he'd done something far more impressive than put a rubber disc in a net. My cheeks burned. I hated it.

"He's showing off," Milo said, following my gaze, smug all over again like the weird moment from before had never happened. "For you, obviously."

"Don't be ridiculous," I said, definitely not blushing, definitely not watching Alex skate back into position with his shoulders a little straighter than before.

Milo just laughed, and I let the moment slide, telling myself I'd imagined the whole "they heal fast…" thing entirely.

By the time practice finally ended, I was a total wreck. It had been barbaric, and they called it only a practice. My nerves felt like I'd run a marathon in heels, and my breath kept coming out in little clouds, ragged from the cold and the adrenaline.

"Don't you skate?" I asked Milo as we headed toward the locker rooms, my legs grateful to be moving somewhere warmer.

"I do," Milo said, and something flickered in his eyes.

"Why aren't you practicing then?"

He glanced up and smirked. "I'm on timeout."

I frowned. "Timeout?"

"Coach prefers the term benched. I prefer temporarily underappreciated."

"What did you do?"

He rubbed the back of his neck, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "The other team had a mouthy winger."

"And?"

"He doesn't anymore."

I stared at him, waiting for more context that clearly wasn't coming. "That's not an answer."

"It's the only one I am giving you for now." He pushed open the locker room door, holding it for me with an exaggerated little bow. "Some things are better left to the imagination."

"That's deeply unsettling."

"I get that a lot."

I was still trying to decide whether Milo was joking or quietly one of the most dangerous people I'd ever met when Alex emerged from the tunnel, hair damp, jersey slung over one shoulder, looking entirely too pleased with himself for someone who'd just spent an hour getting slammed into boards for fun.

"Well?" he said, stopping in front of me. "First impressions?"

"You're all insane," I said. "Certifiably. All of you."

Something like pride flickered across his face, like that was exactly the answer he'd been hoping for. "You'll get used to it."

"I don't think I want to." I meant it, but it came out lighter than I'd intended, almost teasing.

"You will," Milo said cheerfully, already halfway down the hall. "Give it a week. She'll be diagnosing everyone's injuries like a pro by then."

I opened my mouth to argue, then thought better of it, mostly because some small, traitorous part of me suspected he might actually be right. And as much as I hated to admit it, the thought didn't feel half as bad as it should.