Chapter 18 Me + Him

Chapter 18 Me + Him
Chapter 18
Her POV

I followed Cole through the quiet hallways of his house, my bag swinging at my side. My palms were sweaty, my stomach twisting in knots—not just from the thought of practicing, but from the way he moved beside me. He didn’t speak, didn’t glance at me, didn’t even seem aware I was there, and somehow, that made my heart pound faster.

We reached a side door that led to a part of the house I hadn’t seen before. The lights were dim, casting long shadows over the polished wooden floors. My breath caught when I saw the space: a small, private rink, just big enough for training, surrounded by tall glass walls that reflected the faint glow of the overhead lamps. The ice gleamed like silver, untouched and perfect.

“This is… amazing,” I whispered, half to myself, half in awe.

Cole didn’t answer. He just dropped his bag by the side, pulled off his jacket, and stepped onto the ice. Every movement was precise, deliberate, a silent statement: this is serious. No games, no teasing.

I swallowed hard, gripping my stick tighter. My nerves screamed at me, but so did a strange thrill—the kind you get when you’re about to face someone you both fear and admire.

“You ready?” he asked finally, his voice low, calm, but sharper than any whistle. There was no smirk, no playfulness. Just focus.

“I… I’m ready,” I managed, trying to match the steadiness in his tone.

And then it started.

Cole moved first, skating fast and smooth across the rink. Every strike of his stick, every shift of his weight, was exact. There was no room for error, and no mercy. I followed, trying to predict him, trying to match him, trying not to falter.

The first few passes were simple, almost warm-ups, but even in those, I could feel the tension in the air. When he passed the puck to me, he didn’t just toss it—he slid it with perfect force, making me work for control. And when I swung at it, he blocked me with a precision that made me stumble back just enough to feel the heat of challenge.

“You’re off by a fraction,” he said, pointing at my wrist. “Adjust your grip. Keep your elbows closer. Balance—don’t overreach.”

I nodded, swallowing hard. His proximity made me aware of every movement he made—the tilt of his head, the tautness of his shoulders, the way he exhaled sharply when he focused. I felt exposed, and yet, exhilarated. Every correction, every instruction was a test, and I wanted to rise to it.

We moved closer together during drills, sometimes too close for comfort. I caught myself holding my breath as he leaned over to adjust my stance, his hands brushing mine lightly. It wasn’t meant to be intimate, and yet my skin prickled. My mind raced, trying not to read too much into it, trying to focus on the puck, the ice, the rhythm of movement.

“Good,” he said after a particularly fast sequence. “Now push harder. Anticipate. Predict.”

I pushed. I dodged, feinted, and struck, my muscles screaming in protest. He responded in kind, faster, sharper, relentless. I could feel the burn in my legs, the ache in my arms, the pounding of my heart. And somehow, it didn’t feel unbearable—it felt alive.

For a moment, the world narrowed to just the rink, the puck, and Cole. No school, no gossip, no expectations. Just this—just the challenge. Every pass, every block, every movement was a silent conversation between us, a push and pull I couldn’t fully understand.

When I slipped slightly during a tricky maneuver, he caught my arm lightly to steady me. I froze, and our eyes met for a heartbeat. Cold. Focused. His gaze didn’t soften; it didn’t tease. But there was… something there, something unspoken, that made my chest flutter and my cheeks burn. I pulled back quickly, embarrassed, shaking my head as if to clear it.

We continued. Faster. Harder. More precise. I could feel sweat running down my face, my hair sticking to my forehead. But I refused to back down. He was testing me—and more than that, I wanted to prove that I could match him. That I wasn’t just the “new girl” or the “transfer student.” I was Mila. I could hold my own.

At one point, he passed the puck with enough force to make me jump back. My stick clattered against the ice, and I froze, breathing hard. Cole’s eyes bore into mine.

“You hesitated,” he said quietly. “Why?”

I shook my head, trying to regain control. “I didn’t… I’m fine,” I said, though my chest heaved.

“You have to be sharper. Faster. Every hesitation costs you,” he said, circling me now like a predator. The way he moved, so close, so deliberate, made my stomach tighten.

Finally, we paused, both of us panting, muscles trembling, adrenaline still screaming through our veins. I leaned on my stick, chest heaving, sweat dripping, and he just stood there, quiet, calculating.

“You’re better than I thought,” he said finally, his voice low, almost unreadable. “Not many can keep up with me.”

I swallowed, feeling both pride and a strange, confusing relief. “You’re… intense,” I admitted, letting a small, shaky laugh escape.

He didn’t answer. He just handed me a towel, his hand brushing mine ever so slightly again. I felt that flutter in my chest, that awareness that this was more than practice—more than just hockey. There was tension, a challenge, a closeness that neither of us spoke about.

I wiped my sweat, trying to calm the storm of thoughts racing through me. And in that silence, I realized something: this private rink, this challenge, this intensity—it was our world for these moments. No one else mattered. No one else could touch this. And yet, every push, every correction, every glance carried a weight that made my heart beat faster than any hockey game ever had.

We continued for hours—or at least it felt like hours—pushing each other to the limit, passing, blocking, feinting, and circling. By the end, my muscles burned so much I could barely lift my stick. My heart felt like it was going to explode. And still… I couldn’t stop the thrill, couldn’t stop the rush.

Finally, we stopped. He adjusted his jacket silently, looked at me for a long moment, and then simply nodded. No teasing, no words of praise—just acknowledgment.

I leaned on my stick, breathing hard, chest heaving, staring at him. And I realized: I had never been challenged like this. Not by anyone. Not even Cole’s reputation had prepared me for this.

And somehow, despite the sweat, the exhaustion, and the tension, I wanted to stay in this moment forever.