Page 6 of Icebound

Shit, that hurts.

I’m stunned for less than a second before my reflexes kick in, and I lurch for the wheel.

Decades of playing hockey taught me how to perform under an adrenaline rush. There’s no chance I’m letting a future doctor die tonight.

That’s not the punchline of our joke.

2

NINA

Ispend a completely normal amount of time contemplating my death—I checked with my therapist.

According to Dr. Ghosh, my musings on mortality aren’t unusual, thankfully. I plan to live until I’m more wrinkled than one of those cute dogs, the Shar-Peis, but I do hope that when I go, my death will make a good story.

Dying in a car crash with burnt rubber charring my nostrils and America’s sexiest plumber in the backseat is far from iconic.

In the brief moments when I lose control and we careen into oncoming traffic, that’s exactly what I think is coming for me—death.

“Watch out for the car!”

Sexy Plumber lunges for the steering wheel and swerves us back into the right lane so we narrowly avoid hitting the black Tahoe. The sound of screeching brakes fills the starry night.

I punch the brake on instinct, and we jerk, slamming into a pile of trash cans on the sidewalk. That’s going to leave a mark on the car.

An orange peel splatters on the windshield with a loud thwap.

The plumber pitches forward, hitting the back of my skull with his forehead. A sharp pain ripples through my temple, and I wince.

“Sorry, you alright?” he rushes out. “Easy on the brake. I think that noise was the other car’s tire blowing out. Thank fuck we didn’t hit anyone. Please tell me you’re okay.”

“I think so,” I pant, staring at my shaking hands on the wheel.

I’m okay. We’re okay. You’re okay, Nina.

He hovers over me from the backseat, close enough that his stubble brushes my cheek. Sexy Plumber puts the car in park and releases a heavy breath, making my skin prickle to life. I rub my arms to get rid of the little bumps.

“Okay, we’re good.” He slumps into the backseat. “We made it to the curb. We’re good.”

“Right,” I pant. “The curb.”

“That was too close. We’re lucky we didn’t hit anyone else with all these people around. Guess that four-leaf clover on your neck brought us some luck. I think the other car’s fine but let me go check on them.”

His calm words do nothing to suck the tension from my rigid shoulders. The panic’s building, rising like water in a glass box. My own personal cage that’s trapped me since childhood. Except, it’s nothing like that time I actually got stuck in an elevator as a kid.

Talk about traumatizing.

I’ll get light-headed, maybe, no definitely, nauseous, and then I’ll spiral into a mental tornado for anywhere from four to thirty minutes and emerge a sweaty mess.

Fabulous.

Dread fills me, and I grit my teeth like I’m walking into my pottery class to present one of my pieces.

“Nina?” he says. “Did you hear me?”

I jump at the sound of my name. He remembered. “No, can you shout it in my ear again? Louder this time.”

I regret the words as soon as they fly from my lips. Anxiety always sharpens my words, making them ready to strike the nearest opposing victim, but he hasn’t done anything wrong. In fact, this man’s doing everything right.