By six that evening, Jace had complained about the resistance bands, the ice pack, my taping technique, and the fact that Lauren had banned him from contact practice.
I survived all of it.
Then I escaped to the rink.
My last assignment of the day was a sophomore winger coming back from a knee sprain. Lauren wanted me to watch his lower-body mechanics while he worked slow turns around the face-off circles.
I stood behind the open bench gate in sneakers and called corrections over the scrape of his blades.
“Lower your hips. Don’t let the knee collapse inward.”
He tried again.
Better.
I marked the change on my tablet.
Something bumped the toe of my shoe.
A pair of black hockey skates sat on the rubber mat.
I looked up.
Jace leaned against the boards in his team jacket, his injured arm tucked close to his body.
“You spend a lot of time yelling about edge control for someone who never gets on the ice.”
“I’m observing mechanics.”
“From land.”
“That’s where the medical equipment is.”
His mouth twitched.
“You can’t skate.”
It was not a question.
I looked at the skates.
Then at him.
“I can skate.”
“Prove it.”
The sophomore finished his last lap and headed for the locker room, pretending very hard not to listen.
I should have walked away.
Instead, I sat on the bench and changed shoes.
Jace watched without saying a word.
The skates were close enough to my size to be dangerous.
I tightened the laces, stood, and immediately regretted every decision that had brought me here.
“You’re smiling,” I said.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“Get on the ice, Parker.”
I opened the gate.
My right blade touched first.
My ankle wobbled.
My left foot followed and shot forward.
I grabbed for the boards.
Jace caught my waist from the rubber side of the gate before I could go down.
His good arm locked around me.
Heat pressed along my back.
Pine and winter frost rose between us.
My wolf went very still.
“Easy,” he said near my ear. “Bend your knees.”
“I know how knees work.”
“Your current performance suggests otherwise.”
I elbowed him lightly in the ribs.
He laughed.
It surprised me enough that I turned my head.
Without the audience, without his parents, without Madison, Jace looked younger. Less like the future Alpha everyone discussed and more like an eighteen-year-old boy enjoying the fact that I was terrible at something.
“Let go,” I said.
“You’ll fall.”
“Maybe I’d rather fall.”
His expression changed.
Not offended.
Thinking.
Then he released me.
I lasted three seconds.
My skates went in opposite directions, and I landed hard on my butt.
Pain shot up my spine.
Jace laughed so loudly it echoed off the empty seats.
I glared at him.
That made him laugh harder.
“You are a terrible person.”
“You told me to let go.”
“I did not tell gravity to humiliate me.”
A laugh escaped me before I could stop it.
For a minute, the last two days disappeared.
There was no mate ceremony. No family hierarchy. No Madison. No public rejection.
Just me on the ice and Jace grinning from the gate.
I pushed myself to my knees.
“Any useful advice, Captain?”
“Use the boards until you find your balance. Short pushes. Don’t try to walk.”
I followed the boards and tried again.
Jace stayed at the gate and coached instead of touching me.
"Push out, not back. Small stride. Let the blade glide."
"You know I spend all day telling athletes not to listen to injured captains, right?"
"Then consider this peer education."
I made it halfway to the face-off circle before panic tightened my knees.
"Don’t look at your feet," he called.
"They’re the part trying to kill me."
"Look where you want to go."
I lifted my head.
He was still there, one hand on the gate, not moving toward me even though the bond tugged when I got farther away.
That detail lodged somewhere inconvenient in my chest.
This time, I made it ten feet.
Then fifteen.
On the return, my left skate caught an edge.
I tipped forward.
Jace reached through the open gate and caught my forearm before my knees hit the ice.
His grip was firm.
The bond sparked between us.
I looked at his hand.
He did too.
Then, as soon as I had my balance, he let go.
No joke.
No excuse to keep touching me.
No Alpha grip around my waist.
Just space.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Don’t mention it.”
The small act unsettled me more than flirting would have.
He had listened.
We left the rink together a few minutes later. I carried the borrowed skates by the laces while Jace held the door with his good arm.
The lobby lights were brighter than the ice.
So was reality.
“Jace, sweetheart.”
Claire Callahan stood beside the trophy cases in a cream cashmere coat.
Madison was with her.
Jace stopped.
The easy posture he had worn at the rink vanished.
“Mom.”
Claire’s gaze passed over me without pausing.
“We came to see how the shoulder is doing. Your father wants an update before dinner.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’ll be better if you follow the schedule.” Madison stepped to his good side and rested a hand at his waist. “Claire and I were talking about playoff seating. My parents want the family boxes together.”
“It presents a unified front,” Claire said. “Especially with scouts attending.”
I stood two feet away holding skates.
Jace looked at me.
For one second, I thought he might say something.
This is Ivy.
She’s my mate.
She’s the reason my wolf didn’t tear apart the locker room.
Anything.
He said nothing.
Madison’s hand stayed on him.
Claire kept talking about seating charts.
The laugh we had shared on the ice suddenly felt stupid.
Private Jace could be warm. Funny. Careful.
Public Jace still disappeared inside his family’s expectations.
I stepped forward and pushed the skates against his chest. He caught them awkwardly with his right hand.
“Your skates, Callahan.”
His eyes darkened.
“Have a good night.”
I walked toward the doors.
“Ivy.”
My hand stopped on the metal handle.
Not Parker.
Ivy.
Behind me, Claire went silent.
So did Madison.
I could have turned around.
I didn’t.
He did not get to use my first name like a secret while pretending not to know what I was in the light.
I pushed the door open and walked into the cold.
