Page 99 of Breaking the Ice

It takes some brainstorming, a call to the Deputy Athletics Director, and a hell of a lot of favors promised and cashed in.

But when it’s all hammered out, Coach leans back in his chair, laces his fingers behind his head, and smiles. He smiles. Two years ago, I won a National Championship for this man, but this is the happiest—okay, maybe not that far—most pleased I’ve ever seen him.

“Alright, son. It’s power play time. Don’t break the ice.”

I surge to my feet, filled with hope. “I won’t.”

Chapter

Forty-Eight

ISABELLA

Evan: I have a present for you.

Isabella: Where are you?

Evan: I’m at morning practice.

Evan: Go check the parking lot.

Slipping on the cute new pair of black heels I bought to look professional, I hustle down the stairs to the married housing parking lot. I have one guess what might be waiting for me, and my heart speeds up as I scan the cars.

“Yes!” I pump my fist as my eyes land on my Jetta. Still rusty and dented but here and presumably running. Relief floods me—it’s been harder than I expected to be dependent on others for transportation. And while I had to navigate everything by myself in Tennessee, now my car has just appeared here.

Thanks to my husband. My hand trembles as I struggle to pull my phone out of my pocket and dial Evan.

“Hey!” He answers. “Did you find it?”

“I did, thank you. Do you know⁠—”

“Keys should be under the visor,” he says, reading my mind.

“Okay.” Wedging the phone between my ear and shoulder, I open the door. It smells like motor oil and french fries, but I don’t care. It’s all mine. I slide into the driver’s seat, making adjustments and scooting it closer. My fingers close around the keys, and I put them in the ignition.

Turning them, the car purrs to life. Well, rumbles and groans, but still. “Evan, do you hear that?”

“It runs?” he asks. “No knocking? What about all the check engine lights?”

I scan the dash. “Nope, nothing. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen it without them all being lit up.”

He chuckles, the sound reverberating through the phone, and my stomach swoops.

“Evan.” My throat clogs, and I try to speak around it. “Thank you for doing this for me.”

“Nah, it’s no big deal. I just wish I could have helped you more when it broke down.”

The remorse is palpable in his voice. I take a deep breath. “I was pretty unreasonable at that moment. I know you weren’t putting hockey before me. I mean, you were, but you had to go. I’m sorry I held it against you for so long.”

“I’m sorry it happened the way it did. And now you have your wheels back.”

“Thanks,” I repeat, the silence stretching into awkward territory.

“I’m sure you’ve gotta get to school early today,” he finally says. “I know it’s your big school program. I hope it goes well. I’ll see you later.”

“Later,” I echo, my belly sinking to my toes. Why does my tongue get all tangled up every time I want to tell him how I feel? What do I have to lose?

Everything. That’s the problem.