Chapter 6: After Hours

Elliot's POV

The small work table in the equipment room was littered with tiny screws, a hand driver, and the brand-new, polished blades Cruz had thrown into my lap earlier that morning.

It took me nearly forty-five minutes of careful adjusting, turning each bolt until it clicked firmly into the base of my worn boots, to make sure the replacement steel was locked in tight. My fingers were cold, my knuckles bruised from yesterday's fall, but I couldn't stop. I had to know if these blades would hold up under real pressure.

When I finally stepped out into the hallway, the arena clock near the concession stands read 10:00 PM.

Curfew had started thirty minutes ago. The main lights were turned off, leaving only the dim, amber emergency lamps glowing high in the rafters. The vast arena felt completely different at night—quiet, cold, and empty, with the faint scent of freshly zambonied ice rising into the chilly air.

I checked both directions down the dark corridor. No security guards. No Coach Vale.

I sat on the rubber mats near the home bench, pulled my laces tight, double-knotting them with firm pressure, and stepped through the open latch onto the ice.

The initial glide felt impossibly smooth.

The new blades sliced through the surface with precision, responding to the slightest shift of my weight. I started slow, circling the face-off dots in a steady rhythm, letting my body get used to the higher elevation and sharper grip.

"I don't need your charity, Cruz," I muttered under my breath, digging my edges deep into a quick crossover turn. "I just need a fair shot."

I pushed off hard, picking up speed as I charged toward the neutral zone, attempting to execute a sharp, ninety-degree power cut to test my balance.

"Your weight is too far back on your heel," a calm voice echoed suddenly through the empty arena.

I startled, my left edge catching awkwardly against the ice. I wobbled for a second, catching my balance with my stick before turning around fast.

The double doors near the home locker room were standing open.

Cruz was leaning against the boards in black athletic trousers and a tight gray workout shirt, carrying his stick in one hand and wearing his skates. He didn't have his captain jersey on, and his messy hair fell slightly over his forehead without helmet hair spray fixing it in place.

"What are you doing here?" I demanded, my breath forming pale clouds in the freezing air as I glided toward center ice. "Curfew was ten minutes ago. Are you going to report me to Coach Vale now?"

Cruz pushed off from the boards, sliding smoothly toward me without making a sound. "If I wanted to report you, Hayes, I wouldn't have brought my skates."

"Then what do you want?" I asked, keeping my stick planted between us, my defense instantly rising. "Come to check if I ruined your expensive gear yet?"

"I came to see if you actually knew how to use it," Cruz replied, stopping three feet away from me. Under the dim amber emergency lights, his eyes didn't look as cold or distant as they did during morning practice. The harsh, arrogant captain persona he wore in front of Nathaniel and the rest of the squad was completely gone, replaced by a quiet, intense focus.

"I know how to skate," I said defensively.

"You know how to skate fast," Cruz corrected, stepping into a low, smooth stance. "There's a difference. You rely on raw speed to make up for bad angles. When you cut left just now, you leaned your torso before your hips completed the pivot. Against a proper defenseman, you get read instantly and slammed into the boards."

"I scored on your starting defense yesterday," I reminded him, tilting my chin up.

"You scored because Nathaniel was out of position," Cruz said flatly. "A real elite defenseman wouldn't have given you that gap. Do you want to prove you belong on this team, or do you just want to feel good about beating second-rate players?"

His words stung, but there was no mockery in his voice this time. He was stating facts, plain and clear, challenging me to step up.

"Show me, then," I said, my chest tight with friction and curiosity. "If my angle is so bad, show me how to fix it."

Cruz looked at me for a long moment, a slight, almost invisible shift passing through his expression. He tapped his stick against the ice once.

"Watch my feet," Cruz ordered.

He turned, accelerating into a fast curve toward the blue line. As he hit the circle, he didn't lean his upper body. Instead, he dropped his hips low, shifting his full center of gravity straight into his core, slicing through the ice in a curve so sharp and tight it looked physically impossible. He picked up speed through the turn instead of losing momentum.

He glided back toward me, stopping right in front of my toes.

"You're trying to steer with your shoulders," Cruz explained, his tone low, focused, and patient. "Hockey isn't running, Hayes. The power comes from the inside edge of your back skate pushing through your center. Try it again."

I swallowed hard, stepping back to take a breath. "Like this?"

I pushed off, taking three fast strides before dropping my weight and leaning into the turn. But my upper body naturally tilted too far forward, and my back skate skipped along the surface with a chatter.

"No," Cruz said, skating alongside me. "You're leaning again. Keep your back straight. Lower your stance."

For the next two hours, the empty, quiet arena belonged only to the two of us.

There were no crowds, no teammates watching from the bench, and no politics about scholarships or wealthy families. It was just the scraping of blades against fresh ice and Cruz's low, steady voice guiding me through every drill.

"Better," Cruz said as I completed a tight figure-eight around the face-off dots without losing balance. "Your edge control is improving."

"Because these blades actually hold an edge," I said, pulling up near the center line, wiping sweat from my forehead with the back of my glove. "My old pair would have slipped two feet ago."

"The blades help," Cruz admitted, gliding over to stand in front of me. "But the skill is yours. You learn faster than anyone else on this squad, Hayes."

The quiet compliment caught me completely off guard. I looked up, meeting his blue-gray eyes in the dim light. My heart was pounding hard in my chest, not just from the heavy physical workout, but from the sudden, intense warmth radiating between us in the cold building.

"Why are you helping me, Cruz?" I asked softly, my voice carrying clearly through the silent rink. "This morning in the locker room, now out here... you keep stepping in when you don't have to."

Cruz stared at me, his expression unreadable for a long, quiet pause.

"Because you're the only person on this ice who actually cares about the game instead of the name on the back of this jersey," Cruz said softly, his voice dropping into a deep, quiet tone that made my breath hitch.

He took a slow step closer, his skates cutting quietly through the thin layer of ice dust.

"Try the tight turn one more time," Cruz murmured, his eyes locking onto mine. "From the center line."

I nodded, stepping into position and pushing off. I took two strong strides, dropped my stance low, and initiated the turn around the red line, focusing with everything I had on keeping my spine straight and my hips locked.

I felt the edge catch, but my posture drifted slightly off-center halfway through the curve.

Before I could correct it, Cruz glided swiftly from the side, closing the distance between us in a single smooth motion. He came up directly behind me, stopping his momentum instantly.

Before I could speak or pull away, Cruz reached out, placing his large, warm hands firmly around both sides of my waist, gripping my hips to guide my body into the exact, perfect curve.

The heat of his touch burned straight through my shirt, locking me in place as his chest pressed close against my back in the freezing, silent dark.