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CHAPTER THREE

Ambrose

As I step onto the gleaming ice, the biting cold air nips sharply at my cheeks as my skates etching crisp, precise lines into the freshly resurfaced rink.

The distinct aroma of chilled ice, mingled with the musky scent of sweat and faint traces of rubber wafting from the boards, fills my lungs as I take my initial strides.

The sharp, rhythmic slice of blades against the icy surface reverberates throughout the arena, yet there's an undeniable sluggishness to the guys' movements, as if they're moving through molasses.

They're merely coasting, gliding leisurely as if in a trance. I tighten my grip on my stick, the familiar feel of the tape rough under my hands, and survey the ice.

Lazy, lackadaisical passes crisscross the rink. Shots are soft, lacking power and precision.

Skating drills are done half-heartedly, as if they're still languidly easing into warm-up mode instead of tackling this session with the intensity of real practice.

I’m not having it.

"Pick it the hell up!" I command, my voice cutting through the cold air as I skate hard toward the net, propelling a sharp pass directly at Braden's blade.

The puck slices through the air with speed and precision, but he fumbles it, caught off guard by the force behind it. I fix him with a stern, unyielding stare.

"You sleeping out here or what?"

Braden scoffs, his cheeks flushed from the cold as he regains control of the puck. "Chill out, man," he retorts, attempting to brush off the moment.

"No. You chill out. Then you get your ass beat in a real game because you weren't ready for a pass," I fire back, my words hanging in the chilly air like a warning.

A few of the guys chuckle, their breath visible in the crisp atmosphere, but I notice Reggie giving me an approving nod, his eyes gleaming with understanding.

Tyler exhales dramatically, a cloud of vapor escaping his lips as he mutters, "Fine, Dad," under his breath, adjusting his grip on his stick with a resigned determination.

I smirk, feeling a wave of satisfaction. Good. Now they're awake, every sense sharpened, ready for the intensity of the game.

As we execute another play, a sudden flash catches my eye at the edge of the arena. I glance up to see the animal trainers seated in the stands, working with a vibrant bird, a brilliantly-colored macaw that I know they use for promotional stunts during games.

The handler extends her gloved hand, trying to entice the bird into a graceful flight across the ice to another trainer waiting on the opposite side.

However, the stubborn creature has other plans. Instead of gliding smoothly to its intended destination, the macaw takes off erratically, its colorful wings flapping wildly with a burst of energy.

It veers sharply left, then abruptly right, before shooting straight upward into the shadowy rafters, its vibrant plumage a blur against the dim ceiling.

A few of the guys on the ice notice the commotion and chuckle at the spectacle. "Looks like someone didn’t get the memo," Braden remarks, tapping his stick playfully on the ice.

I shake my head, amused, as I watch the handlers below frantically attempt to recapture the macaw's attention. They raise food enticingly, whistle sharply, and call out its name, their voices echoing in the arena.

Yet, the bird seems to have its own agenda, swooping down toward the rink with a mischievous gleam in its eye.

This should be entertaining.

We’re in the middle of a drill, the sound of skates slicing through the ice echoing through the rink, when suddenly, a burst of vibrant red and blue feathers streaks across the frozen surface like a comet.

“Heads up!” a voice shouts, cutting through the air.

The bird swoops down with the precision of a kamikaze pilot. In the blink of an eye, it attaches itself to Reggie’s shoulder pads, its claws digging into the fabric with surprising tenacity.

Flap! Flap! Flap!

The sound of its powerful wings reverberates through the rink, each beat creating a gust that ruffles our jerseys.

Reggie lets out a strangled yelp, his body going rigid as the macaw batters him with its wings, the feathers a blur of color and chaos. Its talons cling tightly, refusing to release their grip.

“Get it off! Get it off!” he bellows, desperation in his voice as he attempts to skate away from the unexpected hitchhiker that remains stubbornly attached.

But the macaw has no intention of leaving. It digs in deeper, its flapping growing more vigorous, as though its trying to establish its authority over the situation.

The rest of us stand frozen, caught between disbelief and amusement, unsure whether to help or laugh.

Tyler, doubled over against the boards with laughter, struggles to catch his breath, gasping between fits of mirth.

“Reggie, dude,” Braden wheezes, barely able to speak through his chuckles, “I think it likes you.”

Reggie spins in frantic circles, desperately attempting to dodge the bird’s sharp beak as it snaps at the air around him.

The macaw lets out an ear-piercing screech, a sound that echoes off the rink walls and mingles with Reggie’s own screams, equally as loud and filled with panic.

Just when it seems like Reggie might be about two seconds from losing his mind, Kenzie bursts onto the ice her hair tumbling free from its usual bun and trailing behind.

She zooms toward Reggie and the feathery menace perched atop him.

“Hold still!” she commands, her voice firm and her hands reaching out with a mix of caution and determination.

But Reggie’s nerves are frayed, and he does not hold still. “ARE YOU KIDDING ME?” he screeches, his voice echoing through the rink.

The vibrant macaw flaps its wings even harder, a flurry of feathers and chaos. Kenzie mutters a string of colorful curses under her breath, her frustration palpable.

With a decisive lunge, she grabs onto the bird’s claws, trying to pry it off Reggie’s padded shoulders.

And then, the bird retaliates. It bites her with a swift, unexpected ferocity.

Kenzie yelps, her breath hitching as the macaw clamps down on her fingers with surprising strength. Instantly, blood beads on her skin, glistening like rubies before dripping onto the ice, each droplet a stark contrast against the frozen surface.

The handlers, finally snapping into action, rush over with urgency, their voices a chorus of apologies as they secure the bird back onto the trainer’s glove, its vibrant plumage ruffled and its eyes still glinting with mischief.

Kenzie looks down at her bleeding hand, a weary sigh escaping her lips. “I need a damn drink,” she declares, her voice tinged with exasperation and a hint of humor.

Braden, still chuckling at the spectacle, claps her on the back with a friendly thud. “I think you’ve earned one,” he agrees, his laughter echoing warmly through the chilled air. “Are you all right though? That looks bad.”

Coach finally calls practice to a halt after the macaw debacle, rubbing a weary hand over his face as if trying to erase the memory of the chaos.

The disbelief is etched into his features. “All right, we’re done. Wood, you need the ER?” he asks, concern tinging his voice.

Kenzie, still clutching her bleeding hand, exhales sharply through her nose, a sound full of exasperation. “Yeah,” she admits, her words laced with irritation.

“I’ll need antibiotics and a tetanus shot, maybe stitches. Which means I’ll be sitting in a damn waiting room all night,” she adds, her voice carrying the weight of the impending inconvenience.

Despite the situation, she’s holding it together, there’s no whining, no dramatics. But the sharp edge in her tone reveals her dread of the impending ordeal.

Reggie steps forward, his fingers ruffling the back of his head in a sheepish manner, looking guilty as sin. “I feel awful, lass . Let us take you. Least we can do after my new best friend,” he gestures with a sweeping arm toward the macaw, now safely perched and secured, “tried to eat you alive.”

Before she can voice any objections—though who could object after being called ‘ lass ’—I swiftly grab a towel from the wooden bench nearby and gently cradle her injured hand in mine, wrapping it snugly.

Her skin is warm beneath my touch, a comforting heat that contrasts with the cool fabric.

As I look up, our eyes lock, a silent exchange that feels both intense and unexpected.

Kenzie quickly averts her gaze, her cheeks blooming with a soft pink flush, like the first light of dawn.

Interesting.

I haven’t been able to shake the image of Kenzie from my mind since that unforgettable party. Her hands had explored me, her mouth had tasted mine, and our bodies had moved in sync.

I let out a sharp breath, trying to force my scattered thoughts back into focus.

That night was meant to be a fleeting, one-time encounter.

I assumed we were on the same wavelength, but now she’s treating me like I’m some kind of toxic waste.

Reggie, still wearing an expression of guilt, gently nudges her with his elbow. “C’mon, let us take you,” he offers, his voice laced with concern.

Kenzie’s face twists into a scowl. “I can drive myself,” she insists, her voice edged with defiance.

I lean in slightly, lowering my voice so only she can hear the words. “You need to stop acting all weird about things,” I murmur, hoping to break through the tension.

Her lips part slightly, a subtle movement that seems almost involuntary, and her eyes flick to mine for the briefest moment, a fleeting connection that holds a world of unspoken tension, before she swallows hard, as if trying to steady herself.

“It was just sex,” I remind her, my voice soft, keeping my tone deliberately neutral.

I allow a hint of teasing to creep into the words. It dances at the edges of the conversation, a delicate balance between nonchalance and provocation.

Her jaw tightens, a visible sign of her resolve hardening like steel. “Exactly,” she replies, her voice clipped and firm, though there’s an undercurrent of something more beneath the surface.

I smirk, the expression curving my lips into a knowing grin, but she refuses to meet my gaze. Instead, she pivots sharply, turning her attention to the others with a determined stance.

“Seriously, I can handle this myself,” she asserts, her tone carrying a mix of defiance and self-reliance.

Reggie crosses his arms over his chest, a skeptical posture that underscores his doubt. “With one working hand?” he questions, his voice tinged with incredulity.

Kenzie opens her mouth to respond, my eyes falling to her lips once more, but then she scowls, frustration and determination battling for dominance in her expression.

Damn it. The unspoken words hang in the air between us, a testament to the struggle within her.

Kenzie stubbornly holds out for another minute, her determination shining through like a beacon. But eventually, with an exasperated sigh that seems to echo in the room, she relents.

“Fine. But this isn’t some ‘helpless damsel’ situation, okay?” Her voice carries a hint of defiance, like a warrior ready for battle.

“Absolutely,” Braden replies with a mischievous grin, his eyes twinkling with humor. “Just three noble knights escorting a very cranky and injured lady to the hospital.” His lighthearted teasing is met with a sharp elbow to his side.

Coach gives us a firm nod, his expression serious yet understanding. “Take her. We need to strategize before the game anyway.” His voice resonates with authority.

Kenzie grumbles the entire way out, her voice a low murmur of protests about not needing a babysitter.

As we step away from the ice, the hallway stretches ahead, its fluorescent lights casting long shadows.

When she stumbles slightly, the echo of her misstep reverberates through the corridor. Braden, quick as a flash, catches her elbow and steadies her, his gaze meeting hers with a pointed look.

“Not a damsel, huh?” he quips, his tone both teasing and concerned.

She glares at him, her eyes sharp and fiery, but the tension between them softens as we reach my car. In the the parking area, I notice something new: a shift in her demeanor.

She’s no longer avoiding my eyes. Now her gaze is meeting mine with a newfound openness that speaks volumes.

The moment we pull up to the bustling emergency room, Kenzie tries to dismiss us as if we were nothing more than stray dogs lingering on the curb. "Okay, thanks, bye," she says, her voice a mixture of gratitude and exasperation.

"Not happening," Braden interjects firmly as he steps out of the car and stretches leisurely, his posture relaxed yet resolute. "ER wait times are hell. We’re not leaving you alone." His words hang in the air, a promise not to abandon her.

Kenzie lets out a dramatic groan, her expression a blend of annoyance and resignation. She massages her temple with her uninjured hand, trying to ease the tension building in her head.

"Do you want us to call someone?" I offer, my tone deliberately casual, though my eyes remain fixed on her, scrutinizing her reaction.

Her expression flickers momentarily, like a ripple across still water. It's subtle, but I catch it: a fleeting grimace, a momentary hesitation before she regains her composure.

She shakes her head with a firmness. "No. Definitely not my parents. They’ll freak out, and it’s nothing." Her words are dismissive, yet something in her tone betrays more than she intends to reveal.

That's… interesting.

I cast a quick glance at Braden and Reggie. Their eyes are fixed on Kenzie as well, the same curiosity mirrored in their expressions.

They noticed it too.

We remain silent, a shared understanding passing between us, but as we step inside, I mentally tuck that reaction away, a puzzle piece saved for later contemplation.