Page 32 of Something’s Brewing

The whistle blew and the girls began filtering toward the bench, chattering about the drills and crowding around Maverick to get their sticks signed. A few of the Blizzard players started removing their helmets, laughing as the girls asked for selfies and autographs like they were celebrities—which, to some of them, they probably were.

Garrett skated to the bench, pulled off his gloves, and said something to Roman before his gaze shifted up and found Madison.

He didn’t wave. Didn’t call out. Just gave her a nod and turned toward the side entrance, cut around the edge of the rink, put on his skate guards, and walked up the steps toward the seating section.

She stood as he reached her.

“How’s the coffee?” he asked.

“Questionable. But the entertainment was solid.”

He smirked. “We don’t charge extra for the chaos.”

She nodded toward the girls still laughing as they circled Maverick. “They’re good. Confident.”

“They’ve worked hard,” he said, glancing over. “Most of ’em started out barely able to stop. Now they could outskate half the adults I know.”

His gaze returned to her, assessing in that quiet, unreadable way of his. “Still sure you can hold your own?”

One corner of Madison’s mouth tipped up. “Is that a challenge?”

“An invitation.”

“I didn’t bring skates,” she said, though the idea of gliding across the ice tugged at her chest in a way she hadn’t expected.

“There’s a gear room. Roman keeps extras. Bet we can find you a pair that would fit.”

She looked back at the ice, then at him. His expression was calm, almost neutral—but there was something in his eyes. Something that made her feel like he wanted her to say yes.

“I haven’t skated in years,” she said.

“I’ll be gentle.”

She laughed. “That’s not what I’ve heard.”

He didn’t blink. “Then I guess you’d better keep up.”

The borrowed skates weren’t broken in to her feet the way her own had been, but the fit was close enough. Madison stepped onto the ice with a slow, measured push, knees soft, posture instinctive. The cold bit through her leggings, and she breathed in the crisp smell of ice in happy nostalgia.

One of the Blizzard players still lingering near the bench plugged a phone into the arena sound system. A beat later, music pulsed through the speakers.

She pushed off, taking steady strokes, her blades carving long, confident lines across the rink. The movement came back to her quickly. It wasn’t something one forgot—not really. Her muscles remembered what her mind had tried to file away under “past life.”

She arced around the far end, accelerating, feeling the wind lift her hair as she tucked into a tight spin. Her skates whispered against the ice, the familiar pull of gravity and control curling through her like an old friend. She opened the spin with a flourish—one hand out, chin lifted—and came to a gliding stop at center ice.

She hadn’t meant to show off. Not exactly.

But maybe a small part of her wanted Garrett to see what she could do. To feel like herself again—sharp and powerful and not just the woman stocking shelves and chasing permits.

When she looked toward the bench, he was watching her.

He skated out toward her, slow and sure, stickless. His eyes didn’t leave hers as he drew closer, their blades circling each other in quiet choreography.

“You weren’t kidding,” he said, voice low, a little rough.

“I told you,” she replied. “I can hold my own.”

His gaze dropped briefly to her skates, then back up. “That was more than holding your own.”