Page 33 of Cold as Ice

“Whenever we go to Jimmy’s, youalwaysget the strawberry milkshake. Even when Ramsey gives you shit.”

“I don’t care what Ramsey thinks of my preferences,” Mal said stiffly.

“That’s what you’re going to focus on?” Elliott teased, leaning more across the table. Mal tensed, but didn’t move back. “Not me memorizing your food orders like a creep?”

“You said it, not me,” Mal said dryly. “Now that we’ve established that, pull out your book. There’s a list of calculations in the back I want you to do while we wait for food. Page 357.”

Elliott wrestled his statistics book out of his backpack, flipped to the page Mal noted, and then took the notebook he slid across the table.

A few minutes later, his name echoed through the little sub shop, and Elliott glanced up, ready to go grab their food, but Mal just shook his head. “I got it,” he said, sliding out of the booth.

A few moments later, he was back, his big hands juggling two big smoothie cups and the gigantic sub, wrapped in Sammy’s striped green and white paper.

“Peanut butter banana,” Mal said, setting his cup in front of Elliott.

“Now who’s the creeper?” Elliott joked.

Mal rolled his eyes. “I knew you got me the strawberry,” he said, tilting his cup towards Elliott. “Now, how’s it going?”

This time it was him who leaned forwards, his dark hair falling over his forehead as he frowned, squinting at what Elliott had scribbled down on the notebook page.

Elliott watched him as he gazed down at the page, that same pulse-fluttering, cock-twitching attraction unfolding inside him.

You could do it. You could make him want you.

“Pretty good, I think,” Elliott said. “But this one, I wasn’t sure I understood what they were asking for.” He pointed to one of the questions in the textbook. It was the truth—but maybe a few days ago, he’d have pretended that everything was fine. Not wanting to look bad in front of Malcolm.

But Elliott could see now that had just pissed Malcolm off more.

“Here,” Mal said, plucking Elliott’s pencil from his hand, and leaned in, scratching out the problem a different way. “Does that make more sense?”

There was an apprehension in his blue eyes as he glanced up at Elliott. “Yeah, actually,” Elliott said and then smiled. He made it slow and sure and pleased and sure enough, Mal not only looked flustered by it, but leaned back into the booth.

“Come on,” he said gruffly. “Let’s eat. Then you can do the rest of those.”

They split the Italian sub, eating in silence.

Elliott took another risk. “Must kinda suck that your dad doesn’t come to games.”

“He’s too far away.” Mal paused. “And too busy.”

“Work?”

“Yeah he’s . . .well, he’s in the military still. Up at Fort Lewis-McChord.”

“That’s not too far, really. Just outside Seattle, right?”

Mal nodded. Set the remainder of his sandwich down. “He . . .he thinks it’s kind of a waste, playing hockey. So I guess even if he isn’t too far away, he wouldn’t want to come out and see me play.”

“He thinks it’s awaste? Mal, I gotta tell you—next year you’ll be in the NHL and I don’t think anyone thinks that’s a waste.”

“That’s not a given,” Mal said.

“Come on,” Elliott said. “You’re one of the highest-rated players in Toronto’s system. Sure, nothing’s a guarantee butyou’re going to be on their roster after you graduate. They’d be stupid not to move you up.”

Mal nodded absently. “Hard to say it’s important though, playing games for a living, when the alternative is devoting your life to your country.”

Elliott supposed he shouldn’t be shocked, not after listening to his half of Malcolm’s conversation with his dad earlier. But he was, anyway. “Is that what your dad tells you?”

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