Page 17 of Icing the Cougar (Hockey USA Collection #7)

Trinity

I’ve never liked the tunnels beneath an arena.

They’re always damp, fluorescent, and echo, giving you that earie feeling, but I promised Jasper I’d meet him down here after his game.

At least they won and tonight he’ll be in a good mood instead of him being upset.

I’m halfway down the corridor toward the locker room, when I hear them—male laughter bouncing off the concrete walls.

I keep walking, even though every step slows me down, because I already recognize Jasper’s laugh, even when it’s disguised under bravado. Even when it sounds nothing like him.

There’s a bend in the hallway just before the locker room doors.

I pause there, pressing myself flat to the wall.

The locker room door opens and closes with staff walking in and out, and I can see glimpses inside each time they do.

Guys are standing in a loose cluster, towels draped around their necks, heads tipped back as they howl at something one of them just said.

“How long you figure before your cougar trades you up for one with a real job, Jazz?” a voice pipes up, high and mocking.

Another guy snorts, “She’ll get bored of your shit, man. Bet you fifty bucks she ghosts before playoffs.”

Jasper’s voice, raw and louder than the rest, almost a bark. “None of you have ever even seen a real woman naked, let alone one who’s not begging for a follow back on Instagram.”

“Whatever, man,” the first one says. “Just don’t come crawling when she snaps you back to reality with the fact she’s got a decade more experience with life than you do.”

They laugh, Jasper included, the mean kind of laughter, the kind that feels like you’re being spit-roasted over a bonfire.

My chest tightens so fast it hurts, and I have to swallow to keep from gagging.

I can’t see Jasper’s face, but I know him well enough to guess the expression he’s got on—big, lazy grin, like none of this matters.

Like he hasn’t spent the last three weeks in my bed, my mouth, my thoughts.

Someone else, maybe Zach, pipes up: “I want in on the pool. I give it three weeks, tops. Unless she gets pregnant, and then you’re totally fucked, bro.”

My vision goes white at the edges. I don’t move, don’t breathe, just stand there shaking, nails digging half-moons into my palms. The marks Jasper left on me last night go from sweet memory to acid on my skin. I’d thought they meant something. Now they feel like brands. Evidence.

My ears ring, and the words start to blur together, but I can still pick out phrases: “Conquest.” “Notch on the stick.” “Older chicks fuck crazy, but you gotta dump them before they get clingy.”

I press myself so hard into the wall. Every memory I have of the last month—Jasper’s lips on my skin, the way he’d curl his hand around the back of my head and tell me, “Don’t flinch, just trust me,” the way he’d say my name when he thought I was asleep—turns from hot to poisonous in my brain.

My hands start to tremble so bad I have to hide them in my coat pockets, clutching at lint just to keep from shaking apart. My mouth tastes like metal.

The laughter fades as the guys seems to drift apart, probably scattering toward the showers.

The door opens again, and I see Jasper lingering behind, saying something I can’t hear, but it doesn’t matter.

I wait until the hallway is dead quiet, then step away from the wall and keep walking past the locker room, past the weight room, all the way to the deserted end of the hall, and collapse onto a bench made of cold, ridged metal.

It’s the kind of bench that leaves lines in your skin if you sit too long. I don’t care. I need the pain. I stare at the spot on the floor where the mop bucket left a dried ring of blue and try to un-hear everything I just heard. It doesn’t work.

My phone vibrates in my pocket.

Jasper: WHERE ARE YOU

Typical that it’s all caps, no punctuation. I flip the phone over and press it face-down on the bench, hands folded in my lap. I’m not ready to see or talk to him yet.

The sounds of the rink drift down through the ductwork—sharp scrape of a Zamboni blade, the clatter of skates against concrete, the far-off buzz of crowd noise like a headache in the walls. I focus on it and just breathe until the pounding in my chest eases off.

It doesn’t go away though. It never goes away.

I replay every second of the past week in my head. The way Jasper would look at me when he thought I wasn’t paying attention. The way he’d touch me, desperate and almost scared. The way I’d let him.

Now, I see all of it for what it was. It was only a story he could tell. Another line to drop in a locker room. A secret thrill, knowing he’d conquered someone older, someone out of his league. Maybe it had never even been about me.

Maybe I’d just been practice.

I touch the mark on my collarbone, the one he’d bitten into my skin last night, and try to remember if it ever felt good. Now it just burns.

The age gap between us, which I already knew there’d be issues with, is now here, front and center. I’m on one side, alone, and he’s on the other, laughing with the guys who will never see me as anything but a fucking punchline.

I squeeze my eyes shut and think. I will not cry. I will not let them have that.

The phone buzzes again

Jasper: ?

Nothing else.

I imagine him sitting on the bench in the locker room, gear half-off, sweat drying on his skin, staring at the phone. Maybe he cares. Maybe he’s just worried I’ll make a scene. I don’t know anymore.

I want to text him back; to tell him I heard everything. To tell him he’s just like the rest of them. To say that I’m done.

I can’t. Not yet.

Instead, I just sit, elbows on knees, and stare at my hands as people come and go through the hall.

The sudden burst of an open door makes me look up to see Jasper coming out of the locker room door.

He’s still in his practice gear, laces flapping, sweat running down his face and darkening the lines of his neck.

His eyes scan the hall, wild and searching, and when he spots me, his face goes soft.

Then he sees the way I’m sitting—curled in on myself, arms crossed—and something in him freezes.

“Trin,” he says, voice hushed like we’re in church or a hospital. He jogs over, stopping just short of the bench, unsure if he should reach for me.

I keep my head down. “Don’t,” I say. My voice is steady, which surprises me. “Just—don’t.”

He hesitates, hands flexing open and closed. “What happened?” he asks. “Did someone—”

“I heard your teammates.” The words come out flat. “All of them. The locker room pool, the jokes. My ‘expiration date’.” I look up and meet his eyes, which is a mistake. “Congratulations, Jasper. You’re the only guy on the team who’s ever fucked a woman over thirty.”

The color drains out of his face. “That’s not—Jesus, Trinity, it’s not like that—”

“Stop.” I hold up a hand. It’s shaking, so I ball it into a fist. “Just stop.” Every word tastes like rust. “You think I didn’t know what this was? I’m not stupid.”

He kneels in front of the bench, puts his hands on the metal between us like he can build a bridge out of it. “I never told them anything. I swear. They’re just—assholes. Guys talk. It doesn’t mean shit.”

“Doesn’t it?” I push up from the bench, feeling the cold ridges imprinted in the back of my thighs. I stand over him, arms folded so tight my shoulders ache. “Because from where I’m sitting, it’s pretty fucking clear who the joke is here.” My voice cracks. I hate it.

He stands too fast, almost bumping into me. His hands reach out, then drop back to his sides. “It was never a joke to me. Not for a second. You have to believe that.”

I take a step back. Then another. Every inch I move, he looks more panicked, like he’s afraid I’ll disappear. “Jasper, don’t.”

He flinches like I slapped him. “Please. Just tell me what I have to do to fix it. You know I don’t give a shit what they say. I’ll tell them all to fuck off. I’ll drop anyone who—”

I shake my head. “You can’t fix it. That’s the point.

This was never going to work.” My voice is soft now, but I keep going.

“I thought maybe if I gave it time, if I just let myself forget how old I am compared to you, how different it all is…” My chest contracts, squeezing all the air out.

“I heard them, Jasper. I heard you laughing along with them.”

He opens his mouth, then closes it. He looks completely lost. All the confidence, the swagger, the bone-deep stubbornness—it’s gone. He’s just a young man who doesn’t know how to hold on.

“Trin,” he says again, softer this time. “I love you. You know that, right? I fucking love you.”

The words hit, but instead of warmth, they are cold and empty.

“I wish that was enough, but it’s not.” I step back with my arms crossed like a shield.

“I can’t be the person you use to prove you’re not like them.

I can’t be your rehab project, or your secret rebellion, or whatever the hell this was supposed to be. ”

He moves forward again. “You’re not. You’re—fuck, you’re everything. You’re the only reason I even made it through the last month without losing my mind.” His eyes are wild, and I almost believe him.

I remember the sound of his teammates’ laughter, the way my name sounded in their mouths. I remember how he laughed too, even if it was just to keep from being the odd man out. I remember what it feels like to be the punchline.

“I’m sorry,” I say. This time, the tears are there, but I don’t let them fall. I owe him that much, at least. “I can’t do this.”

He says my name again, yet it’s already too late.

I turn and walk. I don’t look back. Not once.

When I hit the exit, the air outside is cold enough to bite. I stand there for a second, blinking hard at the streetlights, before I start moving. By the time I reach my car, I let the tears fall.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, a string of texts piling up one after another. I don’t even look to answer any.

I get in, slam the door, and let the silence settle over me.