Page 24 of Cold as Ice

There was a flurry of excitement just out of his periphery, and that was all the giant needed to steal the puck.

Elliott glanced over to the bench and Zach nodded to him, indicating a line change. He skated over, vaulting over the wall and settling down on the hard wooden bench, breath coming in short gasps as he wasn’t quite warmed up fully yet.

“What the fuck was that?” Mal spit out as he dropped next to him. “You had a shot.”

“Eh, it wasn’t a shot,” Elliott said, reaching for water. Shooting it into his mouth, between the metal bars of his face mask.

“When have youevernot been tempted to take a half-ass shot?” Mal demanded. “Usually I have tostopyou from taking wild shit that’s never going to go anywhere.”

“It just wasn’t right.”

But Elliott could admit that he hadn’t felt that intense urgency he sometimes did. Okay that healwaysdid. He usually was desperate by the time they got onto the ice, needing to show Malcolm that he wasn’t some idiot who couldn’t score to save their fucking life.

He hadn’t felt that way today. He hadn’t . . .well, he’d beentryingnot to care. But now Malcolm was kind of pissing him off again.

“Next time, let me have the fucking puck,” Mal muttered.

“Kids, it’s fine,” Ivan inserted. “Ell controlled that gigantic defender. He can do that the whole game. Distract him. While he slips one between his legs. What is he, six foot fucking ten?”

“Big enough,” Mal bit off.

Normally, Elliott might say something else to piss him off.

Something like,I bet he’s got a bigger dick than you, McCoy.

Which would both annoy and disgust the guy.

But this time Elliott swallowed down the comment.

He was fine. Everything was fine.

But as the first period ticked down, it didn’t appear that everything was fine.

Coach ducked down at three-quarters through the first period, reminding them that they missed one hundred percent of the shots they didn’t take.

Elliott didn’t have to look at the board to know their usual shots were way down, and it wasn’t because of the giant who kept dogging his skates.

When the period ended and they tromped down towards the locker room, Mal caught his arm.

Pulled him into one of the nooks in the hallway. “What are youdoing?” Mal hissed.

He’d taken off his helmet, and his dark hair was sweat-soaked, falling over his forehead. He shoved it back, eyes blazing.

Elliott felt that same thrum he always did—an inescapable awareness that he normally reveled in, but had lately begun to resent, because what was it for if they weren’t ever going to act on it?

OrMalcolmwasn’t ever going to let them act on it?

“What am I doing? What amIdoing?” Elliott retorted in a hard voice. It was easy to let some of that frustration bleed into his voice because at this point he wasn’t sure he could keep it out anymore.

He wastryingto let this go. Let go of their stupid fighting. All the pigtail pulling. All the endless unsuccessful attempts to get into Mal’s pants. And instead of just letting him, Mal was here, in his face.

“Yes, what areyoudoing? You fucked around with the puck for ages. You could’ve taken at least five shots and you justdidn’t. If you’re trying to piss me off—”

Elliott’s jaw dropped. “Trying to piss you off?” he interrupted. “Are you fucking kidding me? I wouldneverdo that. I would never fuck up a game just to get a rise out of you. No matter how satisfying it is.”

Mal just stared at him.

Elliott poked him in the chest and hoped he felt it, even through his chest pad. “Is that really what you think of me? That I’d fuck up a game?”

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