Same rink. Same stands. Same seat.I was in the third row from the glass, laptop open on a document I wasn’t going to work on because the two people on the ice below me were making it impossible to look at anything else. The rink was empty – Rhys had booked it through some favour Cole owed the facilities manager, an hour of private ice that was supposed to be for his recovery skating and was currently being used to teach a thirteen-year-old how to shoot the puck like a professional.Miles was in full gear. Borrowed from the equipment room – the same equipment room that contained lockers and codes and the physical evidence of a sabotage that felt, from this seat, like it had happened in a different lifetime. Miles didn’t know any of that. He just knew the gear fit and the ice was empty and Rhys Maddox was standing behind him adjusting his stick grip with the patience of a man who had somewhere important to be and had decided that this was it.“Weight on your back foot. Not your front –
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