All the Right Angles

The click of the door closing echoed in the quiet room. Imogen pulled out her phone, opening the camera app. The red recording light blinked steadily as she settled back against the headboard, pulling her knees to her chest.

“It’s happening again,” she whispered to the empty room—to her sister, hundreds of miles away. “That thing where I look at her and the world narrows to the connection between us. Where I forget this was never supposed to be real.” She rested her chin on her knees, the words spilling out faster now, her voice hushed over the hum of the air conditioning. “She’s going to break me, sis. And I’m going to let her.”

The trade deadline loomed like a storm cloud on the horizon. Rumors swirled through the league, whispered in locker rooms and shouted across social media. Helena’s name surfaced with increasing frequency—speculation about a move to Boston, a return to her native Sweden, a blockbuster deal that would send her east in exchange for prospects and picks.

“It’s nonsense,” Helena said flatly when Imogen ventured a cautious question after practice one afternoon. They were sitting in the otherwise empty locker room, street shoes exchanged for skates, the smell of sweat and stale popcorn lingering. “Teams kick tires every deadline. It doesn’t mean anything.”

She didn’t meet Imogen’s eyes as she said it, her focus fixed on the laces of her left skate, her fingers working the knot with methodical precision.

“Okay,” Imogen said, because what else was there to say? *Stay with me. Choose me. Choose this.* The words formed, unsaid, on the tip of her tongue. She swallowed them down, reaching for her water bottle instead. “Okay.”

The next few days passed in a blur of tension and carefully maintained silence. Helena grew quieter, her smiles tighter, her touch—when they were in public, when the cameras were rolling—more perfunctory. Imogen watched her across crowded rooms, ached for her in the privacy of her own thoughts, recorded late-night video diaries that grew increasingly raw, increasingly unguarded.

“I’m in love with her,” she confessed to her sister one sleepless night, the words tumbling out in a rush, her voice cracking over the final syllable. She swiped at her cheeks with the back of her hand, the camera wobbling in her grip. “I think I have been for a while. I just—” She broke off, shaking her head. “I don’t know how to tell her. Not now. Not with all of this hanging over us.”

The video ended there, saved to a private folder on her phone. She didn’t send it.

The following afternoon, Helena found her in the Prowlers’ film room, holed up with footage of their next opponent. Snow dusted the streets outside the practice facility, the sky a flat, featureless gray.

“We need to talk,” Helena said, closing the door behind her with a soft click. She leaned against the wall, arms crossed over her chest, her face a careful mask.

Imogen paused the footage, the screen frozen on a wide shot of the ice. “About the trade rumors?” She kept her voice light, her eyes on the distorted reflection of herself in the monitor. “I told you, you don’t owe me any explanations. It’s just noise.”

“It’s not just noise.” Helena pushed off the wall, crossing the room to stand in front of her. Her perfume—citrus and amber, familiar even after all these months—wrapped around Imogen, a comfort and a taunt. “Boston made an offer. A good one.”

The words landed like a body check, stealing the air from Imogen’s lungs. She gripped the edge of the desk, her knuckles white. “I see.”

“They’re a good team. A contender. They have the pieces to win now.” Helena’s voice was steady, but her eyes—when Imogen finally forced herself to meet them—held a storm of uncertainty. “It’s a chance to go deep in the playoffs. Maybe even win a Cup.”

“You don’t have to justify it to me.” Imogen stood, putting much-needed space between them. The room felt suddenly claustrophobic, the walls closing in. “It’s your career. Your decision.”

“Is it?” Helena’s question was quiet, nearly lost in the hum of the projector. “This—” She gestured between them, the movement sharp, almost frustrated. “This wasn’t part of the plan. I didn’t expect you. Didn’t expect *this*.”

Imogen’s pulse pounded, a wild, frantic rhythm. “Helena—”

“I don’t know what to do.” The admission seemed to cost her something, her shoulders sagging, her carefully constructed composure cracking at the edges. “I’ve always known my path. Where I was going. What I wanted. You’ve made it complicated.”

The laugh that escaped Imogen was brittle, tinged with hysteria. “I’m sorry to be an inconvenience to your five-year plan.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Helena took a step closer, then stopped, her hand lifting as if to reach for Imogen before falling back to her side. “I just—I need you to tell me what you want. Because right now, I can’t see past the next forty-eight hours, and I’m terrified that if I make the wrong choice, I’ll lose the only thing that’s ever made me question the path I’m on.”

The air between them vibrated with unvoiced words, with possibilities and fears and the terrifying gravity of the truth.

“I want you,” Imogen said simply, the words scraping her throat raw. “Wherever that is. However that looks. I’m in, Helena. I’ve been in. But you have to choose it. You have to choose *me*.”

Silence expanded between them, dense and heavy. Helena’s eyes searched hers, her face a careful mask. Imogen held her ground, her heart in her throat, her future hanging in the balance.

“I have to go,” Helena said finally, her voice rough. “My agent’s waiting. We have to give Boston an answer by morning.”

She didn’t wait for a response, just turned and walked out, the door sighing shut behind her.

Imogen sank back into her chair, the frozen image on the screen blurring before her eyes. She fumbled for her phone, her fingers shaking as she opened the camera app. The red recording light blinked on, casting a faint glow across the dim room.

“I think,” she whispered, the words nearly lost in the sound of her own ragged breathing, “I think I just lost her.”

The trade deadline came and went. Helena remained a Prowler. The news broke in the locker room after morning skate, a ripple of relief passing through the team—a collective exhale. Helena accepted backslaps and fist bumps with her usual calm, her expression giving nothing away. Imogen watched her from across the room, hope a fragile, fluttering thing in her chest.

They didn’t speak until after the game that night—a narrow win against Nashville, the kind of gritty, hard-fought victory that left the whole team buzzing. Imogen found Helena in the parking garage, leaning against her car, her duffel bag at her feet. The fluorescent lights cast long shadows across the concrete, the smell of exhaust and impending rain heavy in the air.

“Nice game,” Imogen said, stopping a few feet away. The distance between them felt vast, uncrossable.

Helena nodded, her keys jingling in her hand. “You too. That save in the third—” She shook her head. “Hell of a stop.”

Silence descended, heavy with everything they weren’t saying. Imogen scuffed her shoe against the pavement, searching for the words she’d rehearsed in her head all day. They scattered like pucks off a bad pass.

“Listen, Finch—”

“Can we—” They spoke at the same time, both stopping short.

“You first,” Helena said, her voice tight.

Imogen took a breath, the cold air sharp in her lungs. “I’m glad you stayed. Not just for the team. For me. I—” She broke off, the words sticking in her throat. “I meant what I said. Before. I’m in, Helena. If you want me.”

For a long moment, Helena didn’t move. Didn’t speak. The parking garage echoed with the distant sound of traffic, the low drone of the city at night. Then she pushed off the car, closing the distance between them in two long strides. Her hand came up, her fingertips grazing Imogen’s cheek—light, hesitant.

“I want you,” she said, her voice rough. “I think I’ve wanted you since that first press conference, when you looked at me like you could see straight through all my bullshit.” Her thumb traced the line of Imogen’s jaw, a feather-light touch that sent sparks skittering along her nerves. “But I’m scared, Imogen. I’ve never done this before. I’ve never let myself want something this much.”

Imogen’s heart pounded against her ribs, a wild, reckless rhythm. “We can be scared together.” She reached for Helena’s hand, tangling their fingers together. “Just don’t push me away. Not again.”

The kiss caught her by surprise—Helena’s lips on hers, warm and sure, her free hand sliding into Imogen’s hair, anchoring her close. It was a question and an answer, a promise and a plea. Imogen melted into it, her body igniting like kindling, months of pent-up longing coiling hot and bright in her belly.