Page 7 of All That Glitters

The ice has always been a reprieve for me. Something about cutting across the cold, unforgiving surface turns down the roar of my thoughts. Over the last few months, I’ve used hockey to escape Marigold. Seeing her red hair in the stands today cements what I’ve secretly known all along: I’ll never escape Marigold Belmore.

She’s poring over her tiny notebook, glancing up every now and again. I don’t know what she could possibly be writing. We haven’t even officially started practice yet. But Marigold sees things differently than most. She puts words to emotion and atmosphere in a way that I’ve never read a reporter do.

“Sinclair, you know anything about the cute redhead in the stands?” Nash, my teammate and roommate, asks as I skate up to where the guys have congregated to wait on Coach Rhodes.

I laced up a half hour early to do some laps around the ice. Something that usually gets me in the right headspace for practice. Marigold was here when I came out, so it ended up being pointless.

“She’s a reporter writing an article about the team,” I say, trying to keep my tone neutral.

If I overreact to him calling Marigold cute, I’ll never hear the end of it.

“So you know her, then?” Conrad asks with a raise of his brow.

“Would be weird if I didn’t, considering we’re both on the paper.”

Conrad narrows his eyes. He crosses his arms, making the C for captain on his practice jersey bunch up.

“You’re in more of a mood than usual.”

I give him a flat look in reply.

“Did she reject you or something?” Nash asks. “I told you, girls don’t like it when you glare all the time. Maybe if you smiled at her—”

“No.”

“No to her rejecting you?” Conrad questions.

“Or to smiling?” Nash adds.

I glare at both of them. “Just no.”

“Sounds like whoever is opposite Sinclair during scrimmage should put on some extra pads,” Porter jokes from nearby. A few of the guys chuckle. Unfortunately, they are rarely deterred by my glares and short sentences.

A whistle blows, blessedly ending our conversation.

“Warm-up!” Coach Rhodes shouts from the player’s bench.

“Five laps, then meet at the face-off circle to stretch,” Conrad tacks on as he pulls his helmet over his head.

I take off as soon as he finishes his sentence, putting as much distance as possible between me and my teammates.

“This is warm-up, not sprints,” Nash says when he catches up to me. He’s the fastest skater on the team, so it’s not surprising that he did.

“I already warmed up while you were staring at yourself in the mirror,” I grouse.

Nash chuckles. “I think I need to shake this girl’s hand. She must be something else to have you so riled up.”

I clench my jaw. Nash is a good guy, but the idea of his overly flirty self sauntering up to Marigold and touching her makes me want to drop my gloves.

“If you don’t tell me who she is to you, I’ll ask her myself,” Nash teases.

I turn my head to glare at him through my face shield.

“Alternate idea: you leave Marigold and me alone, and I’ll refrain from gluing your face to the plexiglass.”

Nash snorts. “You’d have to catch me first.” He knocks into my shoulder as we hit our third lap. “So her name’s Marigold.”

“I don’t want to talk about this.”