Page 34

Cold Ice, Colder Bed

Dean

The final buzzer echoes through the arena, signaling the end of more than just the game.

Our season is over.

We won tonight—4-2 against Northeastern—but it’s a hollow victory. Two points shy of making playoffs. So close it almost hurts more than being completely outclassed would have.

I stay on the ice for an extra minute after the team handshakes, taking it in. The smell of the rink. The scrape of blades on ice. The weight of my gear. Memorizing it all, knowing I won’t feel this again—not like this anyway. Sure, maybe I’ll play recreationally in a beer league next season, but my college hockey days are done.

“Carter!” Coach calls from the bench. “Good game, son. Solid performance.”

I nod, accepting the compliment without fully processing it. Four goals tonight, two of them mine. Should feel like a win. Like something to celebrate.

It doesn’t.

Nothing has, not for eight days. Not since Nora walked out of my apartment and out of my life.

In the locker room, the mood is mixed—disappointment over missing playoffs battling with relief at ending the season on a high note. Gavin passes around beers he snuck in, a tradition for the last game.

He toasts, raising his can. “Good job, men.”

Everyone drinks. I go through the motions, the bitter liquid warming my throat but doing nothing for the cold that’s settled in my chest.

“Local bar’s expecting us,” Henry announces, fresh from the shower. “First round’s on me. Last hurrah before we head back to campus tomorrow.”

There are cheers, guys throwing towels, the usual locker room chaos. I focus on changing, on the simple mechanics of buttons and zippers and laces. Basic tasks to avoid thinking about anything else.

“You coming?” Gavin asks, quiet enough that only I can hear.

I consider saying no. The thought of putting on a social face, of pretending everything’s fine, feels impossible.

“Yeah,” I say instead. “For a bit.”

Gavin nods, clapping me on the shoulder. He doesn’t push, doesn’t ask the questions I can see in his eyes. He just offers silent support.

It’s the only thing keeping me upright these days.

The bar is exactly what you’d expect near a college hockey arena—sticky floors, pool tables in the back, neon beer signs casting blue and red shadows over everything. The kind of place that doesn’t look too closely at IDs as long as you’re not causing trouble.

I’m on my second beer, barely participating in the conversation flowing around me. The guys are loud, relieving tension from the season, telling stories that grow more exaggerated with each round.

“Who knew Carter was hiding that shot all season?” Henry says, gesturing toward me with his glass. “Two goals tonight! Where was that against Princeton?”

“Saving it,” I mutter, barely looking up.

“Well, you saved us tonight,” Adams adds. “Fucking beautiful top-shelf in the third period.”

I nod, accepting the praise because it’s easier than deflecting it. My phone sits on the table beside my beer, screen dark. No messages. No missed calls. Not that I expected any.

Nora hasn’t contacted me since that night. Not even to tell me what happened at her misconduct hearing.

I’ve heard rumors, though. That she was removed from the tutoring program but kept her research position. That the Archer nomination is still under review. That she’s been spending every waking hour in Wexler’s lab, as if she could bury herself in work deep enough to disappear.

“Hey there, hockey star.”

A female voice pulls me from my thoughts. I look up to find a pretty blonde standing beside our table, her smile wide and confident. She’s wearing a Northeastern sweatshirt—one of the home fans—but her expression is friendly rather than antagonistic.

“Can I buy you a drink to celebrate your win?” she asks.

“We didn’t make the playoffs,” I say, more abruptly than I intend.

She laughs, unoffended. “But you won the game. That counts for something.”

Before I can respond, Henry jumps in. “Don’t mind Carter. He’s going through a rough patch. Girl troubles.”

I shoot him a warning look that he cheerfully ignores.

“Girl troubles?” She raises an eyebrow, sliding into the booth beside me. Close enough that her thigh presses against mine. “Sounds like you need cheering up more than celebrating.”

Her perfume is too sweet, heavy in the close space of the booth. Her hand lands on my knee under the table, fingers light but purposeful.

“I’m fine,” I say, shifting slightly away. “But thanks.”

“I’m Amber,” she continues as if I hadn’t spoken. “And I’m very good at cheering people up.”

Gavin catches my eye across the table, a silent offer to intervene. I shake my head slightly.

“I appreciate the offer,” I say, more polite this time. “But I’m not interested.”

“You sure about that?” Her hand slides higher on my thigh, and suddenly she’s shifting her weight, her boob pressing into my bicep. “One night. No strings. Best way to forget girl troubles.”

A few months ago, I might have taken her up on it. Not because I particularly wanted her, but because it was easier than explaining why I didn’t. Because physical release was simpler than emotional connection.

But now all I can think about is Nora. How different this woman feels against me. How her perfume isn’t the subtle lavender of Nora’s shampoo.

How no matter how much I might want to forget—to escape the constant ache in my chest for just one night—I can’t.

“I’m sure,” I say, gently but firmly removing her hand from my lap. “But I said I’m not interested.”

Her confidence falters slightly, embarrassment crossing her features before she masks it with a shrug. “Your loss,” she says, sliding off the bench. “Offer stands if you change your mind.”

“I won’t,” I say, standing. “But thanks.”

I drain the last of my beer and look at Gavin. “I’m heading back to the hotel.”

Concern crosses his face. “Want company?”

“No.” I grab my jacket and phone. “See you guys tomorrow. Good game tonight.”

There are a few half-hearted protests, but no one really tries to stop me. Even Henry, for all his teasing, knows when to back off.

Outside, the April night is cool but not cold, a light breeze carrying the scent of spring even in this urban setting. I walk rather than calling a rideshare, needing the motion, the physical exertion to quiet my mind.

It doesn’t work.

Nothing has, not since Nora left.

Not hockey, not studying, not even the mindless physical release of running until my lungs burn. The pain follows me everywhere, a constant companion I can’t shake.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. For a fraction of a second, hope flares—irrational, desperate hope that it might be her. That she might have decided to reach out.

It’s Logan.

Hey, heard about the game. Tough break missing playoffs. You ok?

I type back a quick response.

Me: Fine. Home tomorrow.

Three dots appear, then disappear, then appear again.

Logan: Mom’s worried about you. Says you sounded off on your last call.

I grimace. Of course she noticed. Not much gets past Caroline Carter, even over the phone.

Me: Tell her I’m fine. Just end of season stuff.

Three dots again.

Logan: Is it the girl I met? Nora, right?

I stop walking, surprised. They’d met once, a while ago.

Me: It’s nothing. Talk tomorrow.

I pocket the phone without waiting for his response and continue toward the hotel. Two blocks away, I pass a small park, empty at this hour except for a young couple on a bench, huddled together against the cool air, laughing at something on a phone screen.

The sight hits like a physical blow. That casual intimacy. The easy connection. The simple joy of existing in the same space as someone who matters to you.

All the things I had with Nora and didn’t appreciate enough while I had them.

Back in my hotel room, I strip down to boxers and a t-shirt, going through the motions of my nightly routine on autopilot. Brush teeth. Wash face. Set alarm for morning bus.

The bed is too soft, the room too quiet. I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling, sleep nowhere in sight despite the physical exhaustion of the game.

All I can think about is Nora.

Nora biting her lower lip when she’s concentrating, a small furrow appearing between her eyebrows.

Nora in my bed, her dark hair spread across my pillow, her analytical mind temporarily silenced by pleasure.

Nora walking out my door, her final goodbye still echoing in my ears eight days later.

I roll onto my side and reach for my phone. Her contact information is still there, unchanged. I stare at it for a long moment, thumb hovering over the call button.

She made her choice. Said she couldn’t do this anymore. That she needed to focus on saving what was left of her academic career.

I should respect that. Should let her go. Should focus on my own future, my own goals.

The Archer Initiative application deadline has passed. My submission is in, thanks to Whitman’s support. If I win, it will change everything—providing the funding, the resources, the recognition to make my prosthetic design a reality. To fulfill the promise I made at Jesse’s grave.

It should be all I’m thinking about. All I care about right now.

Instead, all I can think is how empty that victory would feel without Nora to share it with. How hollow every achievement seems without her clear eyes lighting up when I explain a new breakthrough.

My thumb hovers over her contact for one more moment before I set the phone down, letting it fall to the mattress beside me.

She knows where I am. Where to find me if she changes her mind.

The ball is in her court.

Plus, she deserves the space she asked for.

Even if giving her that space is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

Even if the cold emptiness of this hotel room is nothing compared to the frozen wasteland she left behind in my chest when she walked away.

Even if I have to keep turning down Ambers and pretending I’m fine in front of my team and lying to my family for weeks or months or however long it takes.

Because the truth—the truth I haven’t admitted to anyone, barely even to myself—is that I didn’t just fall in love with Nora Shaw.

I fell in love with the future I could see with her. The one where we pushed each other to be better, challenged each other’s assumptions, built something stronger than either of us could create alone.

The one where I finally found someone who saw all of me—the control, the intensity, the drive—and wanted it, not in spite of those things, but because of them.

I close my eyes, exhaustion finally overtaking restless thought. Tomorrow, I’ll head back to campus. Back to classes and lab work and the waiting game of the Archer decision.

Back to a world where I might pass Nora in the science building, might see her across the quad, might have to pretend she’s just another student I once knew.

But tonight, in the anonymous darkness of this hotel room, I can admit the truth.

I miss her.

And I don’t know if that feeling will ever go away.