The Captain’s Mute Mate

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Chapter 7 Chapter 7

Amber

Clack, shhh, clack, shhh.

My left blade dug into the line. I twisted my torso, pushing my body weight low against the frost.

The rink doors slammed open as the coach marched out onto the ice, blowing his whistle. A new guy stepped right in behind him, wearing a plain training shirt. The dude was massive, built like a straight-up brick wall.

"Listen up!" Coach Henson barked, waving his clipboard. "Julian Vance is joining us as an assistant coach. Bring it in!"

Nat smacked her thick gloves together, shouting loud. "Finally, some real help!"

The rest of the group crowded around the entrance, blades scraping the ice, cheering like absolute idiots. Clowns.

"Is he really an Elite transfer?" one of the guys whispered, leaning over the boards.

"Look at the size of him," another replied. "He belongs in a professional arena."

The campus gossip mill had been running numbers on him since yesterday morning. Julian Vance. A high-ranking Beta transfer from the northern packs. Looking at him standing right there, he looked like someone who should absolutely not have been in our misfit, co-ed group. He belonged with the Elites, not down here with us.

I jammed my edges deep into the ice, stopping short. A spray of frost hit my boot covers.

Julian stepped up to the wooden boards. His eyes swept across the ice, skipping everyone else, and locked straight onto my face.

I slid my hand down toward the pocket of my warm-up jacket, fingers searching for my phone to ready a text.

Julian suddenly lifted his hands.

His fingers cut through the cold air. Displaying perfect sign language.

Hello, Amber. I hear you’re the spine of this team. Let’s fix their sloppy crossovers today.

My jaw dropped. My lungs locked. My heart slammed against my ribs like a puck hitting an iron post.

What the fuck?

Nobody on this campus signed. He didn't need to do that; he could have just said whatever he wanted. He offered a polite smile. I forced my jaw shut, staring back with a completely dead face. My knuckles trembled inside my gloves.

I lifted my hands back up, snapping my fingers into rapid, sharp movements. “Why are you here? You belong with the Elites.”

Julian watched my hands, his expression changing into something amused. He signed back instantly, his movements completely natural. The Elites don't interest me. I asked to be assigned to the Mavericks. Your team has raw potential, but the mechanics are garbage.

"What is he doing?" Nat asked, her eyes darting between Julian and me. "Amber, does he know sign language?"

"He's communicating with her directly." My eyes darted to Coach Henson fast enough to catch his lips. He looked completely stunned. "I didn't know you signed, Julian."

"I took it as a core requirement in the northern academy," Julian said, his voice smooth and deep. He addressed the whole group now. "It's essential for clear communication on the ice when the stadium noise gets too loud. Now, enough talking. Let's see what you've got."

Julian blew his silver whistle. He gestured for the group to start the lane rotations.

"Line up!" The coach yelled. "Single file, let's go!"

Long blades scraped the ice. Bodies leaned low into the curves. Julian stood right against the glass, calling out smooth, sharp corrections.

"Drop your hips lower, Nat!" Julian shouted, pointing at her boots. "Your center of gravity is too high. You're losing power on the turn."

Nat adjusted her weight, her blades catching a cleaner edge. "Like this?"

"Better," Julian called back. "Keep your ankles locked. Don't let the blade wobble."

He caught a flaw in another skater's alignment immediately, fixing their weak form with two quick hand movements.

I stayed back in the center oval, my muscles coiling tighter.

Julian turned his attention back to me. He lifted his hands again, signing while the others continued their laps. You're holding back, Amber. Your speed is fine, but your left ankle is dragging on the approach. Fix the tracking.

I glared at him, my fingers flying into aggressive motions. “Mind your own business.”

This is my business now, he signed back with a slight, cocky smirk. I'm the coach.

A heavy, aggressive rumble vibrated through the ice floorboards, traveling straight up my blades and shaking my calves.

I turned my head toward the space. Through the frosted glass windows, a bright yellow shape cut right through the gray fog.

The Elite hockey team bus. They were back from their away tournament early.

The air brakes hissed and the double doors popped open with a heavy thud.

"Look outside," Nat said, stopping near the glass. "The Elites are back already?"

"They look pissed," a guy added, peering through the frost. "Look at their faces."

Their coach marched out first, his face bright red, screaming at the pavement. The players shuffled out behind him in a miserable line. Shoulders slumped. Heads down. Dragging their heavy gear bags over the wet gravel.

"They got absolutely demolished," Nat whispered. "I've never seen their coach that angry."

Then a pair of black combat boots hit the gravel path.

Ryker.

The air in our rink instantly turned to absolute lead. Even through the thick, frosted glass, his presence hit me like a physical punch straight to the gut. He wore his black team hoodie, the hood pulled down low over his messy dark hair. His shoulders were locked rigid, squared like he was ready to fight the entire world. His knuckles were dead white around the nylon strap of his duffel bag.

Pure anger bled off his body; my body froze for a moment. What was wrong with him?

"Holy shit," one of our skaters muttered, stepping back from the window. "Ryker looks like he's about to kill someone."

"Don't look at him," Nat warned, pulling her jacket tight. "When he gets like that, the entire hallway becomes a danger zone."

Ryker stopped dead on the gravel path. He ignored his teammates. He ignored his screaming coach.

His head snapped up. He turned his torso straight toward our rink windows.

Through the frost on the glass, his eyes locked directly onto mine.

The impact stole the remaining air from my lungs. Why the hell was he giving me that look? I turned to see Julian an inch away from me, trying to help me balance my stance. But it suddenly felt like a pair of eyes were burning a hole through my forehead.

I raised my head immediately only to see Ryker turn and walk away. My brows furrowed; how strange, right?

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