Page 56 of Shattered On Ice

Rook exhales, long and ragged, the last of his wounded pride dissolving. He looks at me with some of the golden retriever warmth back in his green eyes, though it’s heavier now, grounded in the reality of what we’re facing.

“So, what now? You stop therapy?” he asks.

“I can’t.” I shake my head. “I have to finish the agreement. I have to work through my shit with Benoit and get cleared so Knight doesn't lose his license, and I don't lose my mind.” I lean in, bumping my shoulder against his. “But I’m not sure how to get through the rest of this therapy shit without being able to touch him. It’s been hell. The way he can shut it all down in that office is so suffocating. I can't do it alone.” I turn to look him directly in the eye. “I need my best friend. I need you to help me get through this.

Rook doesn't immediately answer. He leans back against his stall, looking up at the fluorescent lights on the ceiling. The silence stretches, heavy and complicated as I grow more anxious that this isn't going to work and we’ll be right back at the beginning, where he hates me. He puffs out his cheeks as he blows out a long, frustrated breath.

“You know this is fucking weird, right?” he grumbles, voice heavy with exhaustion and brotherly disgust. “You and Knight. My best friend and my twin brother. It’s objectively, profoundly weird.”

“I know,” I say quietly, a small, self-deprecating smile pulling at my mouth. “It hit me out of nowhere, to be honest. I was doing a good job of turning off my interest in guys before he walked into my life, and suddenly it lit up like the Vegas strip.”

Rook rubs a heavy hand over his face, scrubbing at the stubble on his jaw. “We’ve only known each other for a year and a half. This is our second season on a line together. But you're my guy.” His hand drops and he turns to me, green eyes serious and conflicted. “I still hate that you lied to me. And I really hate that it’s my brother. I’m not throwing a fucking parade for the two of you.”

I nod, taking the hit as I should. “Fair,” I agree.

“But,” he continues, his jaw set in the familiar, stubborn line he uses when he’s fighting for the puck in a corner. “If you're saying you need a teammate to survive the rest of therapy with my brother, I’m in. I won't leave you to fight through the shit with Benoit on your own.”

I nod, my throat too thick to speak.

He knocks his shoulder into mine, not as hard as usual, but enough to feel like a promise.

“We get through the therapy. We fix your head, get your hands steady. Once you're cleared…” He takes a deep breath. “…if he’s really what you want, I won't stand in your way.”

Twenty-two

Knight

The silence of the lonely house has become a living, breathing entity, a third roommate that follows me from room to room. I glance at the clock on the microwave. It’s 9:15 a.m. I push my glasses up and rub tired eyes. I haven't slept. I lay awake all night, and I’m not even sure I’ve blinked in the last several hours. Indiana lets out a loud snore at my feet, oblivious to the great divide splitting our household. Rook didn't come home. He always comes home after practice, but I haven’t seen him in almost twenty-four hours.

My chest constricts, eyes burning with unshed tears. I broke my brother’s trust. I broke Westin’s heart. I very likely tore apart the Hydras’ team dynamic by coming between them.

A knock at the door has me looking up sharply, heart leaping into my throat. Every step to answer it has my mind chanting that it’s Westin, but he has an appointment later this morning, so it can't be him. I pull the door open to the sweet scent of coffee and fabulousness as Callum breezes past me with a drink carrier in one hand, a paper bag slung over the other.

“Oh, good. You're not dead. I was taking the mid-century credenza and the Frenchie, if you were. Are you ever going to answer my texts, or are you requiring an in-person wake-up call from now on?” he asks as I follow him into the kitchen, where he sets the drink carrier on the counter.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, shock finally subsiding enough to find my words.

Callum turns to me, his eyes tracking me from head to toe, his face moving from pleasant to disgusted. “Good Lord, you look awful. This whole pathetic, sad boi look doesn't suit you. Did you sleep in this outfit, or just roll around in your guilt all night?”

“Callum, please,” I beg, lacking the strength to banter with him today. “Rook hasn't come home. I ruined everything.”

He clicks his tongue and takes an iced latte out of the carrier, sliding it across the counter to me. “Bless your heart. Drink this. You're dehydrated and dramatic. I would know; that’s like my second favorite D word.” He winks and gestures at me with his own cold plastic cup. “As someone with impeccable taste, I can tell you this martyr look you’re trying on doesn't suit you. Westin and Rook are grown men. They’re both professional athletes who get slammed into literal walls for a living. Stop acting like they're these fragile vases you've knocked over with your careless ways. You'll lose your mind if you don't let them figure it out.”

“I’m not being a martyr. I told you from the beginning it was a bad idea to get involved with Westin,” I remind him, sitting heavily as I wrap my hands around the freezing cup. I take a sip and realize it’s perfect. He remembered my coffee order, and I can't even remember to ask him how he’s doing regularly.

“You had fun with him. That’s what mattered,” Callum says, shaking his wavy blond head. “You couldn't have stayed away if you’d tried. I knew that look. I’m quite good at that look, myself, actually. That’s why we’re friends. We get each other on a soul level.” He taps his iced latte against mine and sips.

“I’m an awful friend,” I lament, squeezing my forehead between my fingers, trying to stave off the threatening migraine.

“Oh, please. We’ve all been strung out over a man and a little self-absorbed. But you really have to stop with the self-pity. It’s not doing you any favors.”

I look up at him as he wanders around the kitchen, the soundtrack of his loafers tapping out his steps and his tweed trousers whispering together under his oversized Fair Isle sweater a testament to his insatiable energy. He’s the only person I’ve truly let see my despondency, and here he is, calling me on it.

“You're supposed to be comforting me in my time of need,” I say, leaning my elbows on the table.

Callum props a hand on his hip, cocking his head in my direction as he waves a hand up his body and into the air where his gold bangles jingle down his wrist. “Do I look like someone who will coddle you with lies? No. I’m telling you that no man is worth this moping, so get it together. When do you see Westin next?” He slides into a chair across from me, his frenetic energy subsiding for a moment.

I look up at him with a miserable expression. “Today. In an hour. The last time I saw him, he told me he loved me, and I had to tell him he still needed to finish therapy.”