Page 6 of Ricochet

I’m the one to turn away this time. I slam my locker shut and zip my bag before heading down the hall, passing Stone and his friends without sparing a glance.

One person seeing me is one too many.

But I’ll never have to see that one person again.

That one person will never seemeagain.

No one ever will.

Five years later.

The cold air bites atmy skin as I step onto the ice. Lynwood University’s rink is smaller than the one at my old college in Pennsylvania, but I like its charm. Besides, I needed a change in scenery, and Connecticut is as good a place as any.

It helped that I had an easy in on their team.

I skate a lazy circle around center ice, ignoring the handful of spectators already in the stands waiting for their buddies or boyfriends to start practice. I always show up early when I can, needing the silence before the chaos, before the violence. The familiar chill that sinks into my bones as I skate alone is part of a ritual that quiets at least some of the noise in my head.

A few minutes into my solo session, the team shows up from the locker rooms, all of them wearing either black, orange, or white practice sweaters.

“Wakefield!”

The coach is with them, and I skate over to the bench wherehe’s called me. As a few of the players are stepping out into the rink, I come to a stop in front of the wall, digging the edges of my blades into the ice.

“Attention, ladies,” Coach calls out unnecessarily. All eyes are already on me. “Allow me to introduce your new first-line center. This is Stone Wakefield. He’s a grad transfer from Pennsylvania.”

I receive several chin nods and a few murmured heys.

“I still think Brooks should be on the first line. He’s earned it.”

It’s Nathan Simmons, the team captain, who speaks from his spot beside the coach. The second-line centerwouldhave been given my position had I not transferred to Lynwood. I made sure to memorize the roster before I showed up.

There was one familiar face on it that I knew I’d be seeing today, but I keep myself from searching him out. I don’t care enough to.

At least, that’s what I tell myself.

“It’s cool, Nate. Really,” Brooks says.

“Good man, Brooks.” Coach looks around at the guys as if waiting for any more objections. “Wakefield is a fifth year senior, and he has the most experience. He’s a good player. I had the pleasure of teaching him when he was in high school. He’s fast. Almost as fast as Hayes over here.”

And that’s when my eyes lock with Callum’s on the other side of the wall.

I can’t say I expected the cold look he’s pinning me with, the same one he gave me the last time we saw each other five years ago. Like he’d freeze me right to the ice if he could.

If he’s still upset about the shoulder, he’s in for a rude awakening.

Coach Hill always encouraged us to play as vicious and merciless during practice as we would in a real game. It’s onereason I respect him as much as I do and why I didn’t hesitate to accept his invitation to play for him when he found out I was looking to transfer.

As far as that little body check on Callum that day, Coach barely gave me a slap on the wrist for it. I wouldn’t have even gotten that had it not caused lasting damage. I wasn’t apologetic about it either. Callum may have made varsity because of his speed on the ice, but he was never as aggressive as he needed to be.

I hope that’s changed.

It’s not that I thought he was weak. I was only trying to coax out the fight in him that I sensed needed to be released.

I never got a chance to find out if it worked before he moved away.

He’schanged, at least physically.

He’s wearing a black sweater like mine, both of us on the first line. He’s a little taller, though still a couple inches shorter than me. From what I can tell beneath his pads, he’s filled out a considerable amount. His hair’s longer, brown strands falling over his forehead. He’s clean-shaven, nothing to hide the hard set of his jaw as he continues scowling at me. Despite the dark brown of his eyes, they hold the unyielding chill of the ice I stand on.

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