Page 46 of Icy Pucking Play

My mind flashes back to the conversation I had with Natalie a couple nights ago.

"I like her," Natalia had said, licking ice cream from her spoon. "Sophie, I mean."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. She doesn't look at us like we're broken. Like we need fixing." She'd given me that too-wise look. "She just looks at us like we're...us."

My phone buzzes one more time.

Sophie:For what it's worth, I never wanted your secrets. Just you.

Well, fuck. Now what?

Because here's the thing about falling for someone who sees right through your walls…sometimes they see things you're not ready to show them.

Sometimes they make you want to be brave enough to show them anyway.

And sometimes, if you're really stupid, you push them away before they have the chance.

I look at the pen Sophie left on the bench—one of those fancy ones with "For Stories That Matter" engraved on the side. The one I've seen her clutching during late practices, chewing on the end of it when she's thinking hard about something. The one she uses to write about my family like we're something precious instead of just another story.

Like we matter. Like I matter.

"Fuck," I mutter again, picking up the pen.

Maybe Julia's right. Maybe not every woman is Chelsea. Maybe some people just want to know you, scars and all.

My fingers hover over my phone, trying to find the right words.

How do you tell someone you're sorry for pushing them away when you're terrified of letting them get close?

How do you explain that they make you want to be brave when being brave is what got you hurt last time?

How do you say, "I think I'm falling for you", without saying, "please don't fucking break me"?

I start typing, delete the message, then start again.

Me:You forgot your pen. The one for important stories.

Sophie:Keep it. Seems I read this one wrong.

Dammit. I’ve really stepped in it this time.

Now, how the hell am I going to get myself out of this mess?

Chapter 13

Sophie

"Okay, run this by me one more time," Cynthia says, pulling the chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream carton from my death grip. "But with less dramatic sighing this time."

I'm sprawled on our couch in my comfiest pajamas (which may or may not be another stolen Blades practice shirt and hockey-puck-printed flannel pants), trying to explain how my life imploded in the span of twenty-four hours.

"I told you. Evan went all Ice Man on me because some ex-teammate was being sketchy, and when I tried to understand why, he basically told me to mind my own business."

I make grabby hands at the ice cream but she doesn’t give it back. "That’s what I get after the kitchen make out session, two family dinners, dozens of practice sessions, and one very promising almost-moment in the equipment room."

"Almost-moment?"

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