Chapter 8 Something like almost

The puck hits the boards with a crack.

"Again," Rey says, breath fogging in the cold air.

Ivy groans, dragging herself back to the blue line. "You've said that six times already."

"That's because you keep flinching at the last second. Plant your foot and commit."

"You're annoying when you're right."

Rey smirks. "You're adorable when you're wrong."

Ivy shoots her a glare, but there's no fire behind it. Not anymore. Just heat. And it coils low in her stomach, unwelcome, sharp.

It's late-too late for them to still be on the ice. Everyone else has cleared out, the overhead lights dimmed to half-power. The arena feels cavernous and quiet. Just the two of them, the sound of blades cutting ice, breath and sweat and pulse.

They've been training together almost every night since the PR circus. Since the deal with Hale and Wynn. Since Ivy decided-stupidly, maybe-that fighting back means playing the game first.

And Rey, against all logic, didn't walk away.

Instead, she pushed Ivy harder than anyone ever has. Called her out. Backed her up. Matched her.

She's fast and fearless, wildly creative. Ivy's all precision and technique. Together, they're something else entirely-something dangerous.

Something electric.

And Ivy hates how much she loves it.

She skates back, resets. Shoots.

Rey catches the puck clean on her stick, a flash of movement. "Better."

Ivy exhales, satisfied. She wipes sweat from her brow with the back of her glove.

"You're improving," Rey says, gliding in closer. "And you're not trying to kill me every time I critique you. Progress."

"Don't ruin it with compliments."

Rey laughs, low and warm. It echoes in the empty rink.

Then she turns to skate backward, still facing Ivy, fast and cocky.

Ivy rolls her eyes. "Show-off."

"Just making sure you're paying attention-"

Rey doesn't see the stray puck left behind from drills.

Her skate clips it. Her balance slips.

She pitches forward.

Ivy reacts before she thinks.

She grabs Rey by the front of her jersey, anchoring her. The momentum pulls them together. Hard.

They crash against the boards, Ivy's back slamming the plexi, Rey's hands braced on either side of her.

They freeze.

Close. Too close.

Rey's breath ghosts across Ivy's cheek. Her eyes, wide. Their chests rise and fall in time.

Ivy's hand is still clutching Rey's jersey.

Rey doesn't move.

Neither of them does.

It's the quietest moment they've ever had. And maybe the most dangerous.

"I-you-" Rey starts.

But she doesn't finish.

Because the air is crackling between them, and Ivy's heart is beating loud, and if she doesn't step away right now-

Rey pulls back first. Just an inch.

Then two.

Then the moment's gone.

The next morning, it's like nothing happened.

Except it did.

And their teammates? They notice.

At first, it's subtle. Ivy and Rey aren't barking at each other in drills anymore. No snide jabs. No glares. Just... smoother passes. Clean communication.

Efficient. Professional. Suspiciously so.

In the locker room, Dani raises an eyebrow as Ivy peels off her practice jersey.

"You and Navarro kiss and make up or something?" she asks, casual as a blade to the throat.

Ivy snorts. "Please."

"She hasn't insulted your shooting in a week."

"She's clearly dying inside."

Liza hums from the corner, tying her skates. "I don't know... Rey looked pretty happy last night. Almost like someone finally got through that armor."

Ivy doesn't answer.

She just pulls on her hoodie and pretends her face isn't hot.

Across the room, Rey's laughing at something Jules said. She doesn't look over.

Not once.

And that feels worse than anything.

Team film session. Middle of the week.

The Ravens sit in the dark watching footage of their last scrimmage. Rey and Ivy are seated next to each other-because of course they are. Coach didn't assign seats, but somehow that's where they ended up.

On screen, Ivy threads a pass between two defenders to Rey, who sinks it top shelf.

The room murmurs.

"Damn," Jules says. "You two are starting to read each other like telepaths."

Rey bumps Ivy's knee with hers. "Or maybe we're just that good."

Ivy leans back, arms crossed. "You mean I'm that good."

Rey grins at her, full wattage. "Don't flatter yourself, Ransom."

From the front row, Dani stares at them. "Okay, is anyone else getting weird vibes here?"

Jules laughs. "Oh, 100 percent."

Liza raises her hand like she's in school. "Is this... gay panic or gay yearning?"

Ivy nearly chokes.

"Shut up," she mutters, but her voice cracks.

The team erupts into laughter.

Coach pauses the tape. "Focus."

But there's a smile tugging at her mouth, too.

Later that night, Ivy's in the gym, working through her tension the only way she knows how-sprinting intervals on the treadmill like she can outrun the thoughts in her head.

She doesn't hear Rey come in.

But she feels it.

The shift in the air. The quiet that always follows her like a shadow.

"Still trying to break the speed of sound?" Rey asks, grabbing a towel from the rack.

Ivy slows the treadmill, finally catching her breath.

"Better than spiraling."

Rey nods. "Fair."

She leans against the weight bench, watching Ivy like she's studying something delicate. Or dangerous.

"You okay?" she asks eventually.

Ivy meets her eyes.

And it's not about training. Not about film. Not about the team or the league or the suspension hanging over their heads.

It's about them.

"I don't know," Ivy admits.

And it's the truth.

Rey walks over, slow. Measured. She doesn't touch her. Just stands close enough that Ivy can feel the heat rolling off her skin.

"I think we're past pretending we hate each other."

Ivy's throat tightens. "That'd be easier."

Rey smiles, soft and sharp. "Yeah. It would."

They don't kiss.

They don't even move.

But something shifts-permanent, undeniable.

And Ivy knows: they can't go back.

A week later, during a team dinner at a greasy pizza joint two blocks from the rink, the tension finally breaks into open teasing.

Rey and Ivy sit across from each other, as usual. They've been lowkey bickering over whether pineapple belongs on pizza for the last ten minutes, when Liza cuts in.

"Okay, seriously," she says, pointing her crust at them. "Just bang already."

Rey freezes, mid-sip of her soda. Ivy stares.

Dani howls with laughter. "Thank you. I was starting to think I was the only one watching this rom-com in real time."

"I don't even like her," Ivy lies.

"She's insufferable," Rey agrees, much too quickly.

"Right," Jules says, dry. "And I play defense because I love cardio."

The table erupts.

Ivy wants to disappear into her garlic knots.

Rey kicks her under the table.

She kicks back.

Their eyes meet.

And then they're both smiling, and neither of them looks away.

Later that night, Ivy walks Rey to her car. They've fallen into the habit without realizing-lingering after the others leave, like neither wants to be the first to say goodbye.

The air is cool. The streetlamp flickers above them.

Rey leans against the driver's side door, hands in her pockets.

"You ever think about what we'd be like without all the bullshit?" she asks, quiet.

Ivy shoves her hands into her hoodie. "No such thing as without the bullshit."

"Still," Rey says. "I think we'd be... dangerous."

Ivy steps closer. "We already are."

Rey holds her gaze. "Yeah. But I mean the other kind of dangerous."

The kind that makes your heart ache.

The kind that could ruin you if you let it.

Ivy's mouth goes dry.

Rey's standing right there. One step away. Like always.

Something like almost.

But not yet.

Not tonight.

Instead, Ivy says, "You should go. You've got morning skate."

Rey exhales. "Right."

She doesn't move.

Neither does Ivy.

Eventually, Rey climbs into the car and drives away.

And Ivy stands under the flickering streetlamp for a long time, watching the taillights disappear into the night.

Wondering what it would feel like to close that last inch between them.