Page 17

The weight of the rink settles over me the second I step inside. The frigid air, the echo of blades carving ice, the sharp scent of sweat and rubber combined with the metallic stink of the Zamboni. It’s all familiar as muscle memory, but it doesn’t settle the knot in my chest. Not today.

It’s louder now than it was in the summer.

Not that I expected it to be any different.

The entire team is out today and conditioning skates always bring out the worst in guys.

The hacking coughs, the grumbled curses, the pucks flung at the boards in frustration.

I’ve already lost count of how many laps I’ve done, my thighs burning, my chest tight, but I welcome the pain. At least it keeps my mind occupied.

I don’t let myself look for her.

Not consciously, anyway.

Not that it matters.

My eyes flick to the edge of the ice between drills, seeking the dark swing of her braid, the glint of glittery pink glasses. Nothing. I know she’s not on the ice crew today, not scheduled to tape ankles or haul out water bottles, but my stupid traitorous brain still hopes for a glimpse. Pathetic.

I pull my helmet offto grab some water, shoving sweaty hair off my forehead, and reach for my phone on the bench like a reflex.

My thumbs open the crossword app before I can stop myself.

It’s our thing, or it was this summer. Something simple and so right.

Sadie’s brain is wired for words, mine for patterns.

Together, we can usually knock out a daily puzzle in ten minutes, tops.

I type the first clue into a text, hit send, and drop my phone face down on the bench like it might burn me.

Me:

Six letters. Cryptic message.

She probably won’t answer, and I shouldn’t expect her to. She’s busy. It’s a rare day off. She’s probably studying. Living her life.

This isn’t like the last few months. When it was just the two of us here while the team was on break.

She’d pass me resistance bands while I limped around like an arthritic polar bear, and I’d pretend not to stare at the pink streak in her hair when she bent over to adjust the ice packs on my hip.

No one to notice if I forgot how to talk. No one to judge if I let myself laugh.

It was easier then.

I pick up my stick again, pull on my helmet, and join the next drill.

The whistle shrieks and we take off, sharp turns around cones, stopping short enough to send ice chips flying.

I’m a half-step behind Vic the whole time, not because I’m slower, but because my focus keeps sliding sideways.

I tell myself it’s the new strength program.

My still-healing hip. That Vic is a forward and I’m a goalie. He should be faster

Or that fucking text burning a hole in my pocket.

I shouldn’t have texted her. If she wanted to talk to me, she would have. I probably made her uncomfortable last night.

When we finally get another break, I swipe my phone again.

Sadie:

Riddle.

A grin cracks across my face before I can stop it.

Goddamn it. This woman.

Me:

Can’t fool you, Sadie Jones.

Sadie:

Someone’s gotta carry the team, Ragnar ólaffson.

She even adds the diacritic above the O. Either she’s typed my name enough for it to autocorrect, or she took the extra minute to add it. Both options are good.

The rink feels colder than usual this morning—probably because I’m not strapped into all my pads—but the sweat clinging to my skin makes it feel like a sauna.

My legs burn, my lungs ache. It’s a familiar pain, a welcome distraction.

I open the app to grab another clue, keep the conversation flowing, when another message comes through. My phone jumps in my hand.

Sadie:

I’m glad you texted me.

Me too.

Me:

A four-letter word for ‘companion’

I send it before I can second-guess myself. I should have dropped the crossword pretext. Just told her I was glad I’d sent that first message. The screen remains silent, no immediate reply. I stash my phone on the bench, pretending not to care even as the anticipation gnaws at me.

Back on the ice, I try to focus on drills, but my mind drifts. The memory of Sadie’s laughter, the way her eyes crinkle when she smiles, the warmth of her hand in mine—all of it lingers.

I scramble for my phone again at the next break.

Sadie:

Mate?

A smile tugs at my lips. I type back.

Me:

Correct. Bonus point for speed.

Her reply is almost instantaneous.

Sadie:

I’m on fire today.

Ready for the next one.

Me:

Six letters, turns men to stone

I pretend not to care whether she answers.

Spoiler: I care.

Vic skates over while I’m halfway through my water bottle, tugging off his helmet and raking a hand through sweat-dark hair.

“Dude,” he says, leaning against the boards. “You good?”

I grunt in a way I hope reads as fine, just dying a little. Conditioning skates are hard. That’s the whole point. I might have been at the rink instead of the beach. I might not have let myself neglect my fitness. My hip might have gotten the all-clear, but it’s all still a readjustment.

He snorts. “I thought we might have to carry you off the ice, but you’ve been grinning at your phone like a lunatic all morning.”

I frown. “I ha-a-aven’t.”

“Yes. You have.” He jerks his chin toward my bag. “Sadie?”

Vic drops on the bench beside me with a grunt, his gloves hanging from one hand. He eyes my phone, then my face, and shakes his head like he already knows.

I shrug.

He doesn’t buy it for a second.

I glare at him. “I-it’s not l-l-like that. She’s h—”

“Helping you, I know. Social skills, marketing, smiling at people without looking like you wanna disappear into the boards.” He leans in, lowering his voice. “You realize you’re down bad, right?”

The phrase takes a moment to compute, but I remember looking it up when Katrín listened to the song on repeat. It was the least I could do, taking an interest in her musical tastes. Even if I’m not sure why she’s listening to a song about alien abductions and crying at the gym.

“I’m n-not.”

“Rags.”

I sigh, dragging a hand down my face. “It’s n-not l-like that.”

Vic grins. “Hey, it’s cool, man. I get it.

I was the same way with Tristan. Swore up and down we were nothing more than friends helping each other out, totally professional.

” He makes air quotes. “Next thing you know, surprise.” He holds up his ungloved left hand, the goal band on his ring finger catching the fluorescent overhead lights.

I make a face.

Vic chuckles. “Relax. I’m not saying you’re picking out wedding china. Just… be honest with yourself, yeah?”

“It’s c-c-complicated.”

I swallow hard. I hate this conversation.

Not because he’s wrong, but because he might be right.

This crush, these feelings, my down bad, whatever compulsory school terms my captain wants to use, they all are one-hundred percent correct.

I like Sadie. A lot. More than I’d initially thought was possible.

And I refuse to be the jerk who uses her willingness to help me to make a move.

My phone buzzes and my stomach does this pathetic little flip. I try not to lunge for it.

Sadie:

Medusa. Obvi.

But I can think of literally a million better clues than that.

I smile before I can stop myself.

Me:

Tell me

Sadie:

Gorgon with a bad hair day?

I catch most of the laugh before it slips out, but Vic catches it anyway.

“Jesus,” he groans, “You’re hopeless.”

I ignore him to type back quickly.

Me:

Still thought you’d get it faster.

Another buzz.

Sadie:

Sorry, I’m at my cousin’s soccer tournament.

Some high schooler just dislocated his shoulder… doing one of those viral dance things.

I promise I got it the moment I read the text. Bonus point?

Been there, done that. Although it was a nasty hit and not social media that popped my joint out of place. Yet another reason not to trust these apps.

Me:

Better him than me.

+1

I set my phone down again, and Vic’s still watching me like I’m a bug under a microscope slide. Trapped, pinned down for perusal. No escape.

“Look,” Vic says, serious now. “If it’s about the team thing, nobody’s gonna care. Not if it makes you happy. Both of you happy. If you were smart, you’d stop being a stubborn shit and just ask her out already.”

“I-i-it’s n-n-n-not—” I shake my head.

“Bullshit.” He’s grinning, but his voice is harder than I expect.

The captain's voice, the one he uses when you’ve eaten it hard in the corner and need a pep talk before your next shift.

Or when one guy has winged it off the post over three times in the past five minutes.

Time for the hard truths about where and how to aim.

“I’m n-not trying t-t-to—” I start, then stop, scrubbing a hand down my beard. “It’s… s-social media stuff. Sponsorship. She’s h-helping me f-f-figure it out.”

Vic snorts. “Yeah, because Tristan wouldn’t kill to do that for you.”

I glance over at the other side of the rink where his wife, our social media manager, is currently arguing with a vendor rep about banner placement. I would give up my chances at Lord Stanley’s cup to not have to go talk to her right now.

“She’s b-busy.”

“She’s always busy, but she makes time for people she likes. And you’re one of her favorite weirdos.” Vic elbows me. “You know she’d whip up a highlight reel for you in a heartbeat. Set up a charity event. She loves that crap.”

Actually, it was on my list. Eventually. Maybe I wanted to be a little more self-assured first. Maybe I find Tristan beyond terrifying. Maybe…

I just wanted to ask someone different.

I shrug.

Vic huffs a laugh. “And you asked Sadie because you’ve been low-key obsessed with her since the day she started with the team.”

“I a-askedb-b-because I—”

“Because you wanted to spend time with her? Are incapable of telling her no? Hoped she’d realize she’s desperately in love back? Dude, I swear I’m not judging. I’ve been there before. Trust me on this one.”

I consider holding up my middle fingers, but I don’t.

“Sadie l-l-let’s me b-be me.”