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Training camp was still a week away, but no one had told their calendars.
The pre-season days had a particular tempo to them—fewer cameras, but no less urgency.
The Cup was last season. Another one, along with anything else, would need to be earned all over again; one step at a time.
Jack’s kitchen smelled like fresh coffee and burned toast. The toaster was at fault, not him. He stood barefoot on the tile, one hand holding a mug, the other flipping through a laminated set of training reports.
Across from him, Sam was engrossed in the screen in front of her, hair falling across her shoulders in messy waves, a legal pad in front of her and a plate she had yet to touch. Her blazer hung on the back of one of the chairs. Her heels were by the door. She was currently wearing nothing but a shirt—oversized, collar stretched, unmistakably his. The hem taunting him like a dare from the top of her thighs.
She shifted now and then, brushing against him without needing permission. And every time she did, his hand, the one not flipping pages, brushed her hip. Not possessive—just present.
Outside the windows, the sun was low and warm, casting lines of golden light across the room. It was a quiet morning, a low soundtrack playing from his phone on the counter—guitar, soft percussion, nothing intrusive.
There were two mugs in the sink already. Her charger was plugged in beside his. She had a drawer now, even if they’d never called it that outright. Her backup heels lived in the coat closet. She didn’t always sleep here, but lately she had more often than she hadn’t. It was never a big deal, never a point of discussion. No declarations. No toothbrush revelations. It was just… familiar.
Jack glanced at her. “You’re reading that like it insulted you personally.”
“It did,” Sam said, without looking up. “We need to adjust how we’re measuring zone entries against low-pressure formations. These numbers don’t reflect the shift we made in April.”
Jack leaned over her shoulder, hand finding the curve of her waist . “That’s last year’s filter.”
She blinked, then turned a page. “Right. There it is. Ignore me.”
He took a sip of his coffee, eyes warm on her profile. “I never ignore you.”
The telltale beginnings of a blush tipped his mouth from serious to smirk, but rather than say anything back she finally shifted her focus to her untouched plate instead.
Her phone buzzed on the counter. She ignored it. Jack didn’t ask.
Instead, he slid a new plate across to her—new toast, this time not burned—and said, “You know you could’ve stayed at your place last night.”
He didn’t mean anything by it, he’d just been thinking about how easy things’d been. How naturally they’d established what was nearly a routine without ever having discussed it.
Because she hadn’t stayed the night by accident, or by design either. There’d been a meeting that ran long, then a delivery screw-up with dinner, then they’d ended up watching film together over half a bottle of wine, and whispering their commentary like they were sharing state secrets.
They hadn’t talked about logistics, they never did. She’d just ended up in his house, the same way she usually did, with no hesitation, and no pause when she followed him to his bedroom and curled curled against him like they’d been doing the exact same thing for years.
And this morning she was here—barefoot in his kitchen, eating toast he’d burned, half-dressed in a shirt that hadn’t belonged to her until it did. She bit into his second attempt at making her eat breakfast. “I like your coffee.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“And,” she added, “I like you.”
His face said a lots of things and his mouth made the same cocky grin that she told him had driven her nuts for months on end.
She nudged his leg with her foot. “Don’t get smug.”
“I’m not smug,” he countered. “I’m relaxed. That’s a rarity.”
“Well you should work on making it less rare,” she said. “The season hasn’t even started yet.”
His phone buzzed this time—group chat, probably. Practice schedules, facility notes, or Mason sending inappropriate memes at inappropriate times.
Sam shifted, setting her plate and mug in the sink. Jack stepped up behind her, one hand circling her waist and tugging her closer. She didn’t pause—just leaned back into him, shoulders easing against his chest.
“We’re due at the office in forty.”
Jack drained his coffee, still holding her firm to his chest like she belonged there. “I’ll drive.”
Her eyes swept to the heels sitting near the doorway before she turned and looked at him, amused. “I’m not getting on the back of your motorcycle in those shoes.”
“I meant the car,” he murmured against her neck. “But thanks for the visual. That one’s gonna stick around all day.”
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The team offices weren’t as loud in the off-season, but they still never stopped moving. Hockey didn’t leave much room for stillness. Or quiet. Not for long.
By 8:30, the conference room had filled with coaching staff, analytics, player development, and ops. The chairs were mismatched, the whiteboard half-erased, and Vala was already on her third espresso.
Sam took her seat at the head of the table. Jack to her left.
The agenda was simple: preseason structure, new player integration, media strategy.
Jack led the first discussion, outlining line rotations for training week. He spoke without notes, methodical but open to interruption. Sam listened, eyes on the schedule in front of her, occasionally interjecting to clarify dates, player status, or cross-reference department coordination.
They didn’t speak over each other. They worked around each other’s sentences.
Halfway through a discussion on veteran rest days, Sam said, “We’ll need to be careful with Aarnio. He pushed harder than anyone during playoffs.”
Jack nodded. “I was thinking we sit him out of first scrimmage, work him into the second.”
“Media might notice that.”
He met her eyes. “Let them. He’s earned the time.”
She didn’t disagree, but she didn’t nod either. “Let’s soft-confirm it. Vala?”
Vala was scrolling through her phone without looking up. “Not a problem. I’ll drop a practice note about recovery schedules and throw in something about Quinn’s new training metrics. They’ll be too busy overhyping the kid to ask questions about the vet.”
“Perfect,” Sam said, without missing a beat.
Jack smiled slightly, almost to himself.
They finished the meeting cleanly. No wasted time. When people filed out, it wasn’t hurried—it was the kind of exit that followed people who knew they were being led by someone who had already run the miles ahead of them.
Only Vala lingered.
She perched on the edge of the table, twirling a pen between her fingers.
“You two,” she said, “are unnervingly synchronized lately.”
Jack leaned back in his chair. “That’s not the usual feedback.”
“I didn’t say it was bad,” Vala said. “It’s just... uncanny. Like you’ve rehearsed every single thing before you say it. It's impressive. Mildly unsettling. But very effective.”
Sam closed her laptop. “Is this your way of telling us to be less coordinated?”
“Of course not darling. It’s my way of saying that if you ever break up, I will resign and burn the building down on my way out.”
Jack glanced over at Sam. “Is it just me or did that escalate fast?”
Vala shrugged. “I’ve invested a lot of branding capital into this era. If either of you screws it up, I want it on record that I had nothing to do with it.”
Sam raised an eyebrow. “Firstly, we won’t. Secondly, we’re not anyone’s branding strategy.”
“Not officially,” Vala said, waving a hand dismissively. “But internally? Everyone knows. And believe me, no one’s stupid enough to step in front of this particular train.”
Jack stood, stretching. “Think it’s time for me to go do hockey things.”
Vala finished the rest of her coffee. “Just remember to keep the strategic disagreements in the building. If I have to do another denial run on your behalf, I want hazard pay.”
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Later, by the time most of the staff had gone, they were alone in her office.
She was seated at her small round table, takeout containers spread across the surface. Chopsticks in hand. One shoe off, one leg tucked beneath her. The desk lamp glowed soft and golden behind her, casting warm light on the papers stacked around them. Her jacket hung off the back of the chair. His was folded neatly over the armrest by the window.
He was sprawled in the seat across from her. They’d spent most of the day within five feet of each other.
Sam passed him a file. “Tomorrow’s meeting. I want to restructure travel coordination around media responsibilities. Keep the guys fresher on back-to-backs.”
Jack flipped it open and read. “You want Mason doing media after those?”
“He’s charismatic.”
“He also says whatever comes into his mind 3 seconds after it arrives.”
Sam bit back a smile. “That’s why we have Vala.”
He nodded, flipping the page. “Good call.”
They ate quietly for a few minutes. The hum of the vending machine down the hall the only sound beyond the rustle of paper and the occasional clink of plastic containers being pushed aside.
Sam leaned back in her chair, watching him as he chewed.
“Have you thought about what you want next season to look like?”
He glanced up. “On the ice?”
She shrugged. “In general.”
He thought about it. “I want to be useful. I want the guys to trust the system. I want us to outplay expectations again.”
She tilted her head. “You ever think about being head coach?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
“Sometimes,” he admitted. “But I don’t want it just to want it. I want to build something that lasts. If that means staying where I am, I’m okay with that.”
“Would you take it here?”
She doesn’t know why she asked, just that the question came and she vocalised it.
Jack paused, fork halfway to his mouth. “Only if it didn’t cost something that matters more.”
She held his eyes, quiet, the meaning was clear.
Eventually he closed the file, pushing it aside. “You?”
She watched his hands. “I want to stay ahead of whatever’s coming.”
He leaned forward, forearms on the table. “We’re good right?”
For all his arrogance and bluster, he managed to be ridiculously earnest sometimes. And every single time it caught her completely off-guard. “We are.”
“And we’re not hiding,” he added.
“I know.”
“But we’re still… careful.”
She looked down, then back up. “I care about what we’ve built. That’s the part that matters.”
He reached out and laced his fingers through hers. “We’re pretty good at this.”
She couldn’t help the smile that prodded. “Yeah. We are.” Because it was true, had been for a while. And it mattered.
For a long time, they just sat there, fingers tangled together, the quiet stretching comfortably between them.
Outside the office, the lights of the rink glowed blue and white, distant but steady.
The season would start soon. The rhythm would shift. Early mornings, late nights, travel, noise, pressure. They’d be pulled in different directions more often than not.
But for now, this — quiet, steady, shared — was still theirs.
Jack looked down at their hands. “We’ll make time.”
Sam’s thumb brushed across his knuckles, they’d have to. “I know.”
Eventually, they stood. He picked up their trash. She slipped back into her heels.
At the door, Jack paused, leaned in, and kissed her—light, unthinking, familiar. She didn’t say anything, just rested her hand briefly on his chest in return.
Just two people moving in sync, again.
And tomorrow, they’d do more of the same.