Ten

Reya

Genevieve strolled into the kitchen, a knowing smirk playing on her lips. "You can't avoid Zora forever."

I barely glanced up from my calculus textbook. "I'm not. We're meeting today to study."

She raised an eyebrow. "To study?"

I sighed, tapping my pencil against the page. "Yes. For our calculus test. The one that's in two days? I'm still sitting at a D. If I ace this exam, I'll be passing. And if I'm passing, I get my spot back."

Genevieve leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "And how do you think Zora's gonna feel about that?"

I hesitated. "I don't know. And honestly? I don't care."

A lie. A blatant one.

Of course, I cared. I knew how much hockey meant to Zora. But this had been my dream long before she showed up, and I couldn't let it slip away again. Not for her. Not for anyone.

Genevieve's smirk deepened. "Didn't seem that way when you were taking care of her the other night."

I scoffed, turning back to my textbook, hoping she'd drop it.

She didn't. "Say what you want, but you're falling for her."

"I'm not."

Right?

Zora and I could never be more than what we were. I was graduating this year. She was interested in some girl she met at the party. And, more than anything—

I wasn't into girls.

I couldn't be. Even if I wanted to be.

Because if I was... it would just be another reason for my parents to be on my ass. And I couldn't afford that.

Not now. Not ever.

Genevieve moved toward the fridge as I pulled out my phone. A new message lit up the screen.

Zora: Still on for studying?

Me: Yeah.

Zora: Do you want to come over or meet at the library?

Me: Come here. I'm home all day, so whenever works.

Zora: Okay. I'll be there in 20.

I stared at her message for a second longer than necessary before exhaling and setting my phone face down on the table.

"Zora will be here in twenty minutes," I muttered.

Genevieve grabbed a bowl of leftover pasta and turned to face me, amusement glinting in her eyes. "This should be interesting."

"Only if I actually start to understand calculus."

She gave me a look. "What are you gonna do when this is all over?"

I frowned. "What do you mean?"

"When you're passing. When you don't have an excuse to see Zora all the time." Her voice wasn't teasing anymore. Just curious.

I blinked at her, unsure of what she was getting at. "We're still on the same hockey team. We're still coaching the Little League. It's not like we'll stop seeing each other just because I passed calculus."

Genevieve held my gaze for a second before shrugging and turning back to her pasta.

"Never mind," she murmured, but the slight flush to her cheeks told me there was more she wasn't saying.

I wanted to ask. But instead, I let it go.

As promised, the doorbell rang exactly twenty minutes later. When I opened the door, Zora stood there, bookbag slung over her shoulder, calculus notes in hand. She barely looked up before stepping inside.

"Hey," I said, closing the door behind her.

"Hey," she echoed, her tone neutral. "Hope it's okay I came now. I have a date later and wanted to make sure you still got to study."

I paused mid-step, my grip tightening on the doorknob. "A date?"

"Uh, yeah." Zora glanced at me briefly before setting her bag down at the kitchen table. "With Gabby. The girl I met at the party."

I folded my arms. "So I'm coaching the Little League by myself today?" The bitterness in my voice was unintentional—but I didn't bother correcting it.

Zora's head snapped up, her eyes narrowing. "Of course not," she said sharply. "The date is after practice. It's barely noon. We can study for two hours, get ready for practice, practice, and then I'll go on my date. Is that okay with you, or do I need to check in with you before making plans?"

"No," I said, my voice softer now as I turned away to grab my calculus textbook off the counter.

Zora sat down and I sat across from her, turning to an empty page in my notebook.

"Okay, let's go over the chain rule. It's what our exam is over," Zora said, pointing to the equation she'd written in her notebook. "The chain rule is pretty simple once you get the hang of it. If you have a function inside another function, like f(g(x)), you differentiate the outer function first, leaving the inner function alone, and then multiply by the derivative of the inner function."

I groaned and let my head drop onto the bed. "You say it's simple, but it's not. Why can't they just teach this stuff in plain English?"

Zora rolled her eyes. "They are. You're just overcomplicating it."

I lifted my head just enough to glare at her. "I'm not overcomplicating it. You're just bad at explaining."

"Oh, so it's back to being my fault?" she snapped, eyes narrowing.

"Yes, it is," I shot back, sitting up and crossing my arms. "You're supposed to be helping me, not making me feel like an idiot."

She exhaled sharply, clearly trying to keep her patience. "Fine. Let's try this a different way."

I expected her to dive right back into math speak, but instead, she leaned back, tapping her pencil against her notebook in thought. Then, something in her expression shifted—like she'd just figured out how to break through my thick skull.

"Okay, listen," she said, gripping her pencil like it was a hockey stick. "Think of the chain rule like a hockey play. The outer function is like you setting up the play. You've got control of the puck, and you're about to pass it. That's your first step—you're differentiating the outer function, just like setting up the play."

I tilted my head, curiosity piqued despite myself. "And the inner function?"

"The inner function is like your teammate," she continued, miming a pass with her pencil. "After you pass the puck, your teammate—the inner function—has to take the shot. That's the second step: you multiply by the derivative of the inner function, like passing off responsibility so they can finish the play."

I frowned, trying to work through it. "So... I handle the outer function first, like setting up the play, and then multiply by the inner function's derivative, like my teammate taking the shot?"

"Exactly," she said, grinning. "And just like in hockey, you've got to do it in the right order, or the play falls apart."

I leaned over the notebook, staring at the equation like it might finally start making sense. Picking up my pencil, I hesitated before scribbling down the steps.

"Okay, so for this one," I said slowly, "the outer function is... the square root and the inner function is the stuff inside the square root?"

"Bingo," she said, leaning closer. "Now, differentiate the outer function first. What's the derivative of the square root of something?"

"One over two times the square root of that something?" I guessed, half expecting her to tell me I was wrong.

But instead, she clapped her hands. "Yes. Now multiply that by the derivative of the inner function."

I stared at the problem for a second longer before finally writing down my answer. When I looked up, a small, hesitant smile tugged at my lips. "Did I get it right?"

Zora glanced at my work, and I swore I saw pride flash across her face. "You nailed it. See? You're not as hopeless as you think."

I rolled my eyes but couldn't fight the grin forming. "I guess hockey metaphors actually work."

"Of course they do," she said smugly. "You just needed someone who speaks your language."

"Thanks, Coach," I teased, nudging her foot with mine. Her face immediately turned red.

"Anytime," she mumbled, snapping the textbook shut as if that could erase the embarrassment written all over her face. "Now let's see if you can score on this exam."

"I hope so," I murmured, more to myself than to her. "Are you still good with meeting up early to go over a plan?"

"Yeah," Zora said, glancing at the time on her phone. "It's 2:45. We could probably head there now."

"Sounds good. You can ride with me."

She nodded as I grabbed my keys off the counter, and together, we made our way outside.

✰✰✰✰✰

As Zora and I stepped onto the rink, the familiar chill of the ice settled around us. She sighed, adjusting her gloves before shooting me a look.

"Okay, so I've been thinking," she started, her tone reluctant. "And as much as I hate to admit it, I think incorporating some fun into practice might actually be a good idea."

I smirked, skating backward so I could face her. "See? I was onto something."

"Yeah, yeah, don't get used to it," she muttered, rolling her eyes. But there was the faintest hint of a smile tugging at her lips, and I took that as a victory.

"Alright, so what are we thinking? Sharks and Minnows? Obstacle courses?"

Zora huffed, crossing her arms. "Something that still reinforces actual skills, not just a glorified game of tag."

I raised an eyebrow. "You realize they're kids, right? They're not going to learn anything if they're bored out of their minds. And you agreed to incorporate some fun."

She sighed dramatically. "I know, but if they don't take it seriously, I'm blaming you."

"Deal." I grinned, then gestured toward the center of the rink. "How about a relay race? We set up cones, make them work on their speed, control, and passing all at once."

Zora mulled it over for a moment before giving a small nod. "That could work. But let's add a rule—every missed pass means an extra lap."

I smirked. "I like it. Fun, but still focused on their skills."

Just as I was about to skate closer to Zora, the sound of chatter and skates scraping against the ice caught my attention. The kids had started to trickle in, bundled up in their gear, eyes bright with excitement.

"Alright, everyone, gather up!" I called, tapping my stick on the ice, once all the kids were ready. The group skated over, forming a loose semicircle around us.

Zora crossed her arms and addressed them, her usual no-nonsense tone kicking in. "Today, we're switching things up. We've got a relay race set up, but there's a catch—every missed pass adds an extra lap."

A few of the kids groaned, but most of them looked intrigued.

"That's not fair!" Noah whined.

"It's totally fair," I said with a grin. "It's about control and teamwork, not just speed."

Zora nodded. "Exactly. You want to win? Make clean passes."

That seemed to light a fire under them, and soon enough, we had them split into teams and ready at the starting line.

The first few rounds were chaotic—skates slipping, pucks veering off course, and exaggerated groans whenever someone missed a pass and had to take an extra lap. But after a while, they started to get the hang of it. Their movements became sharper, their passes more precise.

I glanced at Zora, catching the small, satisfied smile she tried to hide. She loved this just as much as I did, even if she'd never admit it.

"Alright, last round!" I announced. "Winner gets bragging rights until next practice."

That got them fired up. The kids took their positions, eyes locked on the course ahead. As soon as I blew the whistle, they were off, skating hard, passing with newfound precision. The final stretch was neck and neck, and as the last player raced toward the finish line, they lunged forward, stick outstretched—

A loud cheer erupted as the winning team celebrated, while the others groaned in defeat.

"Nice work today," Zora said, and despite her usual tough exterior, I could hear the approval in her voice. "You're all improving."

As the kids skated off the ice, I turned to Zora with a smirk. "Admit it. That was fun."

She rolled her eyes but didn't argue. "It was... effective."

"Mm-hmm," I hummed knowingly. "You're welcome."

Before she could respond, I stepped forward to grab a stray puck—only for my skate to catch on the ice. My balance wavered, and in an instant, I was slipping.

Zora moved fast. Her hands gripped my arms, steadying me before I could hit the ice. For a moment, we were close—too close. Her grip was firm, her eyes locked onto mine, the coldness in them that had been there was replaced by something else.

My breath caught. The world around us—the rink, the kids, the distant hum of voices—faded into the background.

Zora's hands lingered for just a second longer than necessary before she cleared her throat and stepped back.

"You should be more careful," she muttered, looking anywhere but at me.

"Yeah," I said, my voice quieter than I intended. "I guess I should."

The moment passed, but the warmth of her touch lingered. I wasn't sure what to make of it, but one thing was clear—I needed to figure out what was going on between us.