Page 19 of Icing the Cougar (Hockey USA Collection #7)

Trinity

I’m in the middle of taping up my life when banging on my front door starts, but I ignore it.

The box in front of me is half-packed, flannel shirts layered with workout leggings and the single hideous Christmas sweater my mother ever sent me.

My room is starting to look like a stripped-down mess of someone about to run.

As I glance around there’s dust bunnies under every bookcase and down the hall I see last week’s takeout still on the kitchen counter, because even now I can’t keep my shit together enough to wipe away the evidence of my failures.

I’m kneeling on the rug, folding my arms over a pile of folded tank tops, when the tears start again.

It’s not even a sob, just a slow, dumb leak I keep thinking is over until it isn’t.

I reach for the packing tape, the whole roll gummy and nearly spent, and force the box closed.

The noise bounces off the walls, echoing in the silence I’ve been trying to keep for the past forty-eight hours.

I let myself lean into the pain for a breath, just long enough to remember why I’m doing this.

The photo frame winks up at me from the mess of books on my nightstand.

I reach for it, running my thumb along the glass.

The picture is of me and Jasper, side by side, his arm draped so heavy and sure across my shoulders, my face red and beaming.

He looks so damn happy in the photo, his eyes squinting against the sun, his smile crooked because I was poking him in the ribs and he couldn’t keep a straight face.

I hate how much I still love that moment.

I hate that I’m about to stuff it in a box and hide it like a shameful secret.

The door pounds again. Louder this time.

“Coming,” I shout, my voice raw and low.

I grab the photo, wrap it in tissue paper, and lay it on top of the shirts. As if that’ll protect it from what comes next.

When I get to the door, I don’t even check the peephole. I just open it, knowing exactly who’s on the other side because there’s only one person in the world who’d show up unannounced and expect to be let in.

Nova sweeps past me before I can say a word, her hair in a wild knot and her lips pursed. She’s in leggings and a cropped jacket; arms loaded with Trader Joe’s bags that she promptly dumps on the kitchen island with a crash.

She surveys the apartment like a field medic in a war zone. Her gaze skims the mountains of boxes, then snaps to my face.

“Jesus, Trin,” she says, hands on hips. “What the hell is all of this?”

I shake my head and swallow, trying to find my voice. “I’m getting a head start on the move,” I say, which is a lie because I haven’t even signed the lease in Portland yet, but Nova doesn’t need to know that.

She rolls. “Sure. You always said if you left, you’d do it at midnight, not high noon with the sun out and your ass hanging in the wind.”

She starts unpacking the groceries, slapping down a bag of tangerines, a tub of hummus, three boxes of wine, and a single, perfectly ripe avocado. It’s like watching a chef plate a final meal for a condemned woman.

“Was going to text you,” I manage, my hands flat and shaking against the countertop.

“Of course you were,” she fires back. “You’ve been ‘going to text me’ since yesterday, when you didn’t even show up for morning flow. Which, by the way, was a shitshow. I had to let a room full of hungover finance bros stare at my ass for an hour with no backup. You owe me.”

I want to say sorry, but I can’t. I’m still trapped by the sight of my own hands, the way they’re trembling over nothing.

Nova sighs, then comes around the island and pulls out a barstool. She gestures for me to sit.

I perch on the edge, feeling about two inches tall.

Nova leans in, her elbows propped and her eyes boring straight through my soul. “Want to tell me what’s really going on?”

I pick at the skin around my thumbnail. “I’m leaving,” I say. “It’s for the best.”

She scoffs. “Bullshit. Since when do you run from anything?”

“It’s not about me,” I say, louder than I mean to. “It’s about Jasper.”

Nova’s face darkens, her jaw set hard. “That little fucker did something, didn’t he? I’ll go down to the rink and rip his dick off.”

“He didn’t,” I say quickly. “He didn’t do anything wrong. He’s just—” I break off, searching for words. “He’s better off without me. The team, his career, all of it. I’m just… I’m just making things worse.”

She stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. “You’re not serious.”

“I am,” I say, and this time my voice cracks. “I heard them, Nova. The locker room. The jokes. I’m his ‘cougar conquest.’ They made a pool on how long it’d take for me to leave him.”

She sits back with her arms crossed. “You care what a bunch of beer-brained hockey monkeys think?”

I shrug, because the answer is no and yes, all at once.

Nova’s voice softens, just a hair. “You said you didn’t give a shit about that stuff. You said—”

“I lied,” I say. “It hurts. It fucking hurts. And I don’t want Jasper to get caught in the crossfire.” I blink, and my vision wobbles. “I’m poison to him, Nova. He’s already got suspended for fighting. The press is sniffing around. The more I’m there, the worse it gets.”

Nova is silent for a minute, the longest I’ve ever seen her keep her mouth shut. Then she stands and starts pulling books out of the box I’d just taped shut. She places each one back on the shelf, neat and precise, undoing my work page by page.

“Stop,” I say, but it’s weak, and she ignores me anyway.

She piles my yoga journals and my battered copy of The Art of War back where they belong, then turns to face me again.

“You’re not doing this for him,” she says. “You’re doing it for you.”

I glare. “Excuse me?”

“You’re scared,” Nova says. “You’re scared he’s going to leave, so you’re running first. That’s not noble, Trin. That’s just cowardice.”

Her words slice deep, but the part that stings is how much I want to believe she’s wrong.

She gestures around the room. “You can box up every memory, every t-shirt, every fucking spoon. It’s not going to make you forget him. Or make it hurt any less.”

I want to argue, but all I can do is stare at the way my own shoes look.

Nova sighs, a long, dramatic exhale. “What are you going to do? Move to Portland and take a vow of celibacy? Eat vegan donuts until you die?”

I almost smile at that. “I’ll figure something out.”

She leans in. “If you really care about Jasper, you don’t cut and run. You face him. You talk it out. You don’t disappear and leave him to the wolves.”

I look up, startled. “I don’t know about that.”

“Maybe he needs you,” she says, quietly.

The room is silent.

Nova grabs one of the wine boxes, rips it open, and pours two glasses. She pushes one toward me. “Drink up. I’m going to keep you from doing anything stupid until you sober up.”

I take a sip, the wine sharp and dry, and watch her with suspicion.

She pulls out her phone and starts tapping away. “Oh, and by the way, you are going to an aerial show with me tomorrow night,” she says, eyes never leaving the screen. “I know the guy running it. You’re going with me.”

I shake my head. “No. I’m not—”

She holds up a hand. “You’re going. You need to get out of this cave and remember what it’s like to be alive.”

I’m about to protest again when I realize I have no energy left for fighting. None. I drain the wine, set down the glass, and stare at the half-unpacked box by my feet.

“Fine,” I say, voice small. “But I’m not promising to stay.”

Nova grins, wicked and triumphant. “Just show up, Trin. That’s all you ever have to do.”

She starts putting away the rest of the groceries, humming to herself.

I sit at the island, watching her, and let the silence wash over me. Maybe she’s right. Maybe showing up is all that’s left.