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Joey Potter had never once pictured herself sweeping a sheet of ice with a fiberglass broom while a man in khakis yelled “Harder, Potter! Faster!” like they were storming Normandy. And yet, here she was. Capeside Community Curling League. Thursday nights. Fluorescent lights, cheap hot chocolate, and the undeniable smell of liniment and disappointment.
She hated how much she kind of loved it. Well… she loved the part where she wasn’t at home pretending to care about SAT prep or whether her GPA could survive another B-minus in AP Chem. Out here, she could do something. Something stupid, sure, but real. Progress wasn’t a number on a transcript or a guilt trip in the form of a college brochure. It was measured in inches. In the slow, scraping slide of granite over ice and the soft thud of a perfect shot.
Ridiculous? Absolutely. But it felt good to want to win at something that didn’t matter. She even loved the rhythm of it, the sound of sliding stones, the brush of bristles against ice, the way everyone quieted just before a throw, breath held like it mattered.
But she did not love Pacey Witter.
Pacey Witter, who somehow convinced the league commissioner to let them register as Team Potter, like he hadn’t been calling her Potter since the third grade and acting like they came as a set. Pacey Witter, who wore that ridiculous curling hoodie like it was a badge of honor instead of something he won in a Facebook giveaway he didn’t even remember entering. Pacey Witter, who could deliver a perfect draw shot with one eye closed and still manage to flirt with the opposing team’s vice skip and critique her sweeping form like he was her personal coach-slash-menace.
He was loud, smug, entirely too good at this weird Canadian ice sport, and the most aggravating person she’d ever known which, considering their shared history and the general population of Capeside, was really saying something. But curling, it turned out, wasn’t just about aim and force. It was about patience. Precision. Trust. You had to know where your teammate’s stone was going before they even let it go. And somehow, despite every ounce of logic screaming otherwise… Pacey knew where hers was headed every time.
Which was unsettling.
Even more unsettling was the way she found herself noticing the little things, the way his voice dipped when he called a shot seriously, the way he never let her carry the gear alone, the way his hand sometimes brushed hers when he handed off the broom and didn’t pull away right away. She told herself it was the cold messing with her brain. The ice. The monotony. The fact that Thursday nights had somehow become the best part of her week. And that was the most dangerous part of all.
“Your line’s off,” he said now, crouched like some smug ice warlord behind the hog line. “Sweep left. No, your other left!”
Joey scowled and threw her weight into the broom with unnecessary aggression. “You’ve got one more shout in you before this broom meets your face, Witter.”
“Such passion! Such poise!”
The stone bumped just where it needed to and curled gently toward the button, kissing the inside edge with frustrating grace. Pacey grinned like he’d personally carved the Grand Canyon with nothing but charm and a slightly chipped broom.
“Perfect placement,” he said, rising to his feet with a dramatic little bow. “See? We make a great team.”
Joey rolled her eyes, but the motion lacked bite. She felt the smile tugging at the corner of her mouth before she could suppress it. “If by ‘great’ you mean tolerable, sure.”
He stepped forward to join her on the ice, his cheeks flushed pink from the cold and exertion, hair wild beneath a navy knit cap he definitely hadn’t washed in weeks. He looked stupidly happy like a Labrador who’d just stolen someone’s sandwich and gotten away with it.
“You tolerate me way more than anyone else does. I’m flattered.”
“I have to. Bessie roped me into this and then bailed, remember?”
Pacey gave a solemn nod. “And you’ll never let her forget it.”
“She’s still on my list.”
He pointed at her with his broom. “And you’re only here because I bribed Dawson to switch leagues with the promise of pizza and unflinching moral support.”
Joey shot him a look. “You bribed him with stuffed crust and a three-month Hulu trial. That’s not moral support. That’s…”
“Strategic recruitment.”
“Blackmail.”
“Tomato, tomahto.”
She bumped him with her shoulder, just lightly, the way you do when you’re not thinking too hard. “You’re ridiculous.”
He bumped her back, a little firmer. “And yet you still come every week.”
“Only to stop you from driving the rest of the team insane.”
He smirked, cocking his head. “You love me really.”
It was casual. Offhand. A throwaway line tossed between breaths. But Joey froze. Just a second. Not long. But enough. The words hung there in the air between them, fragile and shimmering like frost on glass. Pacey didn’t flinch or take it back. Just looked at her, still teasing, but quieter now. A little uncertain beneath the usual grin. Joey’s breath caught. The rink hummed around them: the sharp scrape of blades, the distant clack of stone against stone, someone cursing in lane two. Everything else moved, but she stood still, suddenly aware of how close he was. How warm his eyes were, even in the cold.
Her heart thudded once, loud and inconvenient. “Let’s just throw the next rock,” she muttered, brushing past him. But as she moved, her fingers grazed his glove. And neither of them pulled away.
-
The first time they practiced alone was unintentional. The others bailed, family stuff, work emergencies, someone’s kid with the flu. Joey had almost turned around in the parking lot, keys still warm in her hand, breath puffing in short clouds as she stared at the empty cars and considered the very real possibility of going home.
But she didn’t.
Partly because she’d already changed into her thermals, and partly because she refused on principle to give Pacey Witter the satisfaction of her absence. He greeted her just inside the rink doors with two steaming paper cups from the café next door and that same smug grin he always seemed to have locked and loaded.
“You’re early,” he said, as if he hadn’t clearly been waiting.
“You’re still insufferable,” she replied, tugging her gloves tighter like armor.
“I brought you chai.”
She squinted at him, suspicious. “What do you want?”
“To see you smile, Potter.”
She blinked. Once. Twice. And then snatched the cup from his hand before he could say anything else. It took her a full ten minutes to stop thinking about it. They ran drills in quiet, half-filled with the hum of the rink lights and the occasional clatter from lane three, where some local high school kids were trying to out-sweep each other into cardiac arrest. Joey focused on her grip, her balance, the path of the stone. Anything but the way Pacey's voice dropped an octave when he said “nice try,” or the way he stood just close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating off him between throws.
He was… different that night. Still Pacey , still a little too cocky, still wearing a hoodie with a curling pun she refused to acknowledge but quieter. Calmer. No dumb jokes. No performative bravado. Just steady instruction and the occasional, disarmingly genuine “You’ve got this.”
She didn’t know what to do with that. She didn’t know what to do with the way he watched her throw, not in that performative, male-sport way, but with real focus. Like he believed she could nail it if she just tried one more time.
And she did.
Eventually, her final stone of the night slid clean down the sheet, curled perfectly at the last second, and landed dead-center on the button. There was a beat of silence. not disbelief, exactly, but something close to wonder. Then Pacey whooped. Full-body, unrestrained, arms flung into the air like he’d just witnessed a miracle on ice.
“That’s what I’m talking about!” he shouted, grinning like he’d coached her through it on national television. “Joey freaking Potter, ladies and gentlemen!”
She shook her head, laughing despite herself, a flush creeping up her neck that had nothing to do with the cold. “Okay, sit down,” she muttered, but her voice had lost all its sharp edges.
He didn’t sit. Just looked at her, beaming. Joey bent to retrieve her broom, heart still thudding a little faster than it should. She didn’t say it out loud, couldn’t but the truth settled quietly in her chest, warm and startling: It was the first time in a long time she felt good at something new. And somehow, it mattered that he’d seen it.
-
Mid-season.
They’re down by one with one end left to play, and the tension in the rink hums like a live wire. Joey stands near the boards, pacing small, tight circles in the worn space between the benches and the wall. Her breath fogs the air. She’s not even cold anymore just coiled energy and frayed nerves. Across the ice, the other team huddles in a mess of puffy jackets and smug whispers. She hates them a little more with every passing second.
“You okay?” Pacey asks, voice low and even, like he already knows the answer.
She doesn’t look at him. “Fine.”
He doesn’t push, not right away. Just leans beside her against the painted cinderblock wall, arms crossed, watching her out of the corner of his eye like he’s done this a hundred times before.
“Mm,” he says eventually. “You’re gripping your broom like it personally insulted your sister.”
Joey glances down. Her knuckles are white against the handle. She exhales, tight, sharp then tries again, slower. “I just… hate letting people down.”
Pacey tilts his head, thoughtful. “You think one missed sweep ruins the game?”
“It doesn’t help.”
“Doesn’t end it either.”
She shrugs, helpless. “It just… feels that way. Like everyone’s waiting for me to mess up.”
She doesn’t say the rest of it, that she’s always felt that way. That every mistake feels like confirmation of something she’s always feared deep down: that she’s not quite enough. That trying hard and caring deeply still won’t save her from failing. Pacey doesn’t fill the silence with a joke. Doesn’t tease. Instead, he nudges her shoulder with his. Just enough to break her spiral. “Hey. Look at me.”
She does. Slowly. His eyes are steady, bright, and more sincere than she’s used to. It throws her a little. “You’re not a screw-up, Potter. You’re not just here filling space. You’re…” He pauses, searching for the words. “You’re the glue. The heartbeat of this team. You’ve got instincts. Grit. A killer death glare that I’m honestly a little afraid of.”
Joey blinks. Stares. “Did you just compliment me without a single insult laced in?”
Pacey lifts one shoulder in a mock-casual shrug. “Don’t get used to it.”
A smile ghosts across her lips before she can stop it. She bumps his arm, softer this time. “Thanks.”
His smile mirrors hers. Less cocky, more real. They don’t say anything else, but they fall into step together as they head back toward the house. No more pacing. No more nerves. Just quiet momentum.
Like they’re already winning.
-
They won that night. Barely. One lucky end. One perfect shot. It hadn’t even been hers, Pacey’s final throw, a stunning draw that hugged the line like it knew exactly where it belonged. But her sweeping had helped. Her call had been right. As the stone slid to a stop on the button, Pacey whooped like he’d just qualified for nationals. Then he caught her around the waist and spun her, dizzy and laughing and breathless, like they were eight again, celebrating something dumb with popsicles and scraped knees and the luxury of joy without consequence.
Later, when the others had cleared out and the rink had fallen quiet again, they stayed behind, dragging their feet, neither one quite willing to be the first to leave. Pacey sat peeling old tape from his broom handle, fingers working absently, like maybe if he kept busy he wouldn’t say something stupid.
“You’re actually kind of good at this,” he said eventually, flicking a piece of tape onto the bench.
Joey tossed him a look as she zipped her jacket halfway up. “What, sweeping ice? My true calling.”
He leaned against the boards, slouchy and warm-eyed, looking at her like she was something worth memorizing. “No. I mean… sticking around. Being here. Letting yourself have fun.”
She crossed her arms, suddenly aware of how quiet it was — how the buzz of the fluorescents couldn’t quite drown out her heartbeat. “Is this where you psychoanalyze me?”
“No.” He smiled, but it faded quickly, replaced by something a little more careful. “This is where I say…” He hesitated. Swallowed. “I like being on your team. Not just here.”
Joey blinked.
Then: “That wasn’t a curling metaphor.”
“Nope.”
“You’re serious.”
“As a heart attack.”
There was a beat. Then Joey stepped forward. It was still cold in the rink. Her breath still fogged in front of her face. But she wasn’t shivering anymore.
“I like being on your team too,” she said softly. “Even if you’re annoying. And loud. And full of puns.”
“High praise.”
“And if you ever call it sweeping me off my feet, I will kill you.”
“I would never,” he said, grinning. “...Say it out loud.”
She rolled her eyes. Then she kissed him.
It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t a movie kiss, or some sweeping declaration. It was brief, sweet, and tasted faintly of hot chocolate and victory. His nose was cold. His smile against her lips was warmer than it had any right to be. And it felt, impossibly, like coming in from the cold. When they pulled back, still close enough to fog up each other’s glasses, Pacey whispered, “You still owe me next week’s first throw.”
“Fine,” she said, smiling. “But I’m calling the shots.”
“We’ll negotiate.”
And they left the rink like that, not as rivals, not quite as winners, but something better.
Teammates. With maybe, just maybe, something more.
-
The next week, everything is awkward. At least for the first few minutes. Joey won’t look at him. Pacey’s fidgeting with the score markers like they’re fragile artifacts that might explode if handled improperly. The rest of the team is pretending not to notice, but the vibe is unmistakable; something happened. No one knows what. No one dares ask. Joey ties and unties her shoelaces three times. Pacey adjusts the scoreboard twice, gets the numbers backward, and mutters something under his breath about “personal humiliation on municipal property.”
Warm-ups begin. The clatter of stones. The squeak of shoes on damp rubber mats. People fall into their routines.
Except Joey. She’s halfway through a halfhearted practice slide when she hears footsteps behind her. Pacey walks over, clears his throat, and holds something out in her direction without ceremony. A pair of gloves. New. Black. Sleek. Still creased from the packaging.
“They’re yours,” he says. “Your old ones suck.”
Joey stares at them. Then at him.
“You got me gloves?”
He shrugs, trying for nonchalance and missing by a mile. “Your hands get cold.”
There’s a silence, thick and crackling, but not tense. Not anymore. She looks at him, really looks, eyes narrowing like she’s trying to solve him again from scratch.
“You’re kind of an idiot,” she says at last.
He smiles, slow and crooked. “Is that a thank-you?”
She pulls the gloves on, flexes her fingers, then glances up with the faintest curve to her mouth.
“It’s a start.”
He doesn’t press, doesn’t push. But as she walks back toward the sheet, she bumps his arm again, just lightly. And this time, he doesn’t bump back.
He just follows.