Page 38 of Icebound

He loves sushi. I can’t stand raw fish.

He coasts in the slow lane. I’m an aggressive driver.

Isaac’s always ten minutes late, and I’m always ten minutes early.

Love is built with little moments, and we didn’t have enough of those, so our relationship crumbled. I’ve seen the way Isaac kisses Gwen like a reflex, but he always kissed me like an afterthought—if he ever kissed me at all.

“Do you want to talk more over drinks, maybe?” Gwen asks. “There’s this new rooftop bar that opened on Eighth that has a whole mocktail menu. Rhode’s playing a game tonight. Maybe we can watch?”

The thought of watching Rhode brings up all kinds of images I need to push away, so I want to tell her no, but I stare at her genuine grin, trying to remember the last time she smiled at me like that.

I can’t.

“Okay, fine. Let’s go.”

I loop my arm through hers and start telling her about my day. We leisurely amble to the bar, and despite the frigid air, neither one of us picks up the pace.

10

RHODE

“Hey, old man! Did you forget how to block in your eighty years playing hockey or what?”

Cruz yells over the roaring stadium. He makes a cawing noise while waving his arms like a pigeon.

“Why don’t you keep fucking yelling ‘cause I play better when you yell at me!” I shout around my mouthguard.

“Watch me.” He skates past the crease. “Nineteen keeps dangling the puck in front of me, clever fucker.”

The opposing player, Nineteen, skates up to Cruz and winks like a jackass before crossing the blue line back to the defending zone.

Cruz cups his gloves around his mouth, calling after him. “You got the skinniest legs in the League or what?”

“Why don’t you stop fucking chirping and focus,” I shout.

“Why don’t you take your stick out of your ass and use it to block?” he yells before skating off.

I’m annoyed as hell with Cruz. We’re already on a penalty kill, and he keeps losing his damn temper.

Straight to the sin bin every time.

Cruz throws his stick at Nineteen, so we get another two-minute penalty. Just what we fucking need when we’re already getting slaughtered. Let’s hope Cujo’s not watching from his Canadian throne because this is a damn mockery.

Passes are off. We’re missing the net. Not blocking the shots.

Apparently, we forgot how to play hockey because when we change lines, we get another penalty for having too many men on the ice. Who’s counting? Not us, clearly. The ref can fuck right off even though he called it right.

We’re clawing for every inch. Cincinnati’s hustling hard, making all kinds of strong attacking plays. There’s a lot of traffic since they’re swarming the net.

They came to win.

Simple as that.

My gaze bounces between players as they skate and slam into each other. I dart my eyes across the ice, tracking the puck as it moves between sticks.

Nineteen’s picking up speed like he’s about to make a breakaway, but at the last second, he winds back for a blistering slap shot.

The puck zips toward me, a black blur against the white ice.