Checking It Twice

The arena smells the same. Cold air. Metal. Adrenaline. It hits me the second I step inside, sharp and familiar, like a memory my body recognizes before my brain catches up. For a split second, I’m seventeen again—sitting in the stands with my knees tucked up, pretending I’m immune to the chaos of hockey culture while very much not being immune to it at all. Then I see him. Rowan Beckett leans against the boards near the tunnel, helmet tucked under his arm, dark hair damp with sweat and falling into his eyes like it’s doing that on purpose. He’s laughing at something one of the trainers says, head tipped back, easy and unguarded. Of course he’s still beautiful. I stop short, coffee cooling in my hand as irritation flares—hot, immediate, and annoyingly familiar. I’d hoped time and distance would do what common sense never managed to accomplish. Apparently not. “Don’t stare,” I mutter, adjusting the strap of my bag over my shoulder. Rowan Beckett is not my problem. He’s also not supposed to be part of my life anymore. Not in any way that involves this sharp awareness skittering up my spine or the way my body reacts like it remembers something my brain refuses to catalog. He looks older than the last time I saw him. Broader. More settled into himself. Like the kind of man who knows exactly how much space he takes up—and takes it anyway. And then his gaze lifts. For half a second, the entire arena narrows to a single line between us. His smile fades, replaced by something quieter. Focused. Like he’s bracing. My brother’s teammate. My brother’s rival. Very much off-limits. Rowan straightens, pushing off the boards, and I hate how naturally he does it—like he’s been waiting for permission to move. “Well,” he drawls, eyes dragging over me with maddening slowness, “if it isn’t Reed.” I arch a brow. “If it isn’t Beckett.” A corner of his mouth lifts. “Still allergic to first names?” “Only yours.” That earns a real smile—crooked, pleased, and entirely unfair. He steps closer, and I tell myself the quickening of my pulse is annoyance, not awareness. “You back for good?” he asks. “I’m here for work,” I say, because that’s safer than the truth. “Don’t get excited.” “Too late,” he replies easily. “You always did have a talent for ruining my day.” I laugh despite myself—short, sharp. “Pretty sure you had that covered all on your own.” His gaze dips, just briefly—to my mouth, I think—before snapping back up. The shift is subtle, but I catch it. I always have. “Griffin know you’re here yet?” he asks. There it is. My smile cools. “My brother doesn’t need a status update on my whereabouts.” Rowan lifts his hands in surrender. “Just asking. You know how he is.” I do. Griffin Reed—defensive wall, captain-in-waiting, professional grudge-holder. And Rowan Beckett’s biggest competition on and off the ice. I take a step back, reclaiming space. “If that’s all, I should—” “Hollis.” My name in his mouth is different. Softer. A mistake. I freeze. “What.” He hesitates—actually hesitates—and for a heartbeat I see something like uncertainty flicker across his face. “Welcome back,” he says. “The arena’s been… quieter.” Something tightens low in my chest. I refuse to examine it. “Try not to miss me too much,” I reply, turning away before he can see the effect of his words. As I walk down the corridor, I feel his gaze follow me—steady, unreadable, heavy with things neither of us is ready to say. I tell myself it doesn’t matter. I tell myself I can handle this. But as the crowd noise swells behind me and the season stretches out ahead, one truth settles deep in my bones: Rowan Beckett is going to be a problem. And worse— I’m not sure I want him not to be.