Page 45 of Cold as Ice

Mal looked over at the assistant coach, who just shrugged with a wry smile on his face. “I told Coach you two weren’t going to be able to work it out. That putting you together more was only a recipe for disaster.”

“It’s not—” Mal paused. “We’renotthat bad.”

“Of course not.” Zach clapped his hands and called out, organizing the next set of drills.

Over in the goal, Finn made a face, obvious even behind his helmet.

“I’m assuming you don’t want me to take it easy on him,” Mal said under his breath referring to their starting goalie and his occasional crises of confidence.

Mal understood better than anyone how much impact a father could have on a son. But then Finn’s dad wasn’t inflexible and cold like Malcolm’s was. He was just famous. More than famous, really. Every time he showed up on campus, he was surrounded by kids, excited to see one of the most famous hockey players of the twentieth century on their campus. And every time he showed up, it felt like Finn shrank more into himself.

“No,” Zach said.

Mal nodded once. Set down his Gatorade and picked up his stick. “Alright, then.”

Ivan passed him the puck, and he skated down to the other end of the ice.

Mal felt the world around him fold inward as he pulled his focus even tighter.

He could feel Brody next to him, his stick flicking out, trying to steal the puck, but Mal had the best technique on the team—earned through hours of hard practice—and Brody almost never managed to grab it from him.

He didn’t now, either.

Down the ice, Mal eyed Finn, who was stock-still, waiting on how Mal might give his next move away so he could adjust accordingly.

He’d practiced these moves a hundred times. A thousand, probably. Even with Finn seeing them a lot over the last year, he could probably still fool him. But instead of pulling out one of them, Mal loosened his focus and let instinct take him.

Took a hard right instead, looping around and then behind the goal, wind whistling past his ears as he picked up speed, Brody behind him swearing as he tried to keep up.

Finn was half a second late, and Mal flicked the puck into the corner right before Finn’s stick came down, blocking the way in.

“Goddamn it,” Finn cried out, whacking his stick on the ice in frustration.

Mal skated over to the boards and watched as Elliott took the next run. He was sharp, maybe sharper than he ever was at practice—but then Mal knew how good his moves had been, and Elliott never met a challenge he didn’t want to exceed.

Ramsey was fast on the ice—but Elliott was faster. He was the fastest, quickest skater on the team, a few inches shorter than Mal himself, a lean machine of efficiency.

He shot across the rink with a determined effort, nearly leaving Ramsey in the dust, and then changed direction twice, effortlessly, when Ramsey actually managed to catch up to him.

“Fuck you!” Ramsey yelled as Elliott pulled a flashy little backwards move, flicking the puck between Ramsey’s legs.

He was a great defender. Mal had honed his skills on Ramsey’s own, but Elliott had a new speed, a new inventiveness today,and then to Mal’s surprise, he approached the goal much as Mal often did. Mal recognized that pattern and was almost pissed that Elliott was skating it better than he did.

But he didn’t take the shot when Mal usually did, waiting a second, then another, longer, stretching it out until almost the last moment, before flicking the puck up and in, just above Finn’s right shoulder.

A second later, Elliott skated to a stop right next to Mal. He was breathing hard, and Mal wanted to pretend he wasn’t affected by the warm body next to him.

But he was.

“Great shot,” he said, before Elliott could ruin the moment.

Because he would. Right?

“Really was,” Elliott said. “You should try that next time.”

“Holding a second longer? It’s not my norm—”

“God forbid,” Elliott said, but he was chuckling.

---