Page 49 of Icy Pucking Play

"Okay, now you're spiraling again," Cynthia observes. "What did he say?"

I show her the text.

"Well, that's sweet."

"Says the woman who just called us both idiots."

"Because you are!" She stands up, gathering her things for work. "You're both so busy protecting yourselves that you're missing what's right in front of you."

"Which is?"

"A really good story." At my look, she clarifies: "Not the one you're writing. The one you're living."

With that, she heads for the door.

"Wait! What does that even mean?"

"Figure it out!" She pauses in the doorway. "Oh, and Sophie?"

"Yeah?"

"Maybe consider that some stories are worth telling, even if they're hard to hear. Even if they hurt." She grins. "Also, you might want to change out of his practice shirt before making any grand declarations."

And then she's gone, leaving me with melting ice cream and too many thoughts.

Thirty minutes later, I’m still moping around the kitchen and living room, schlepping my semi-depressed ass around…

Until my phone buzzes again. Another text from Evan:

Evan:Can we talk?

Followed immediately by:

Evan:I'm outside your building.

Holy…

Oh shit.

I look down at my Blades shirt and my pajama pants, and my general dishevelment.

Perfect. Just perfect.

Another text:

Evan:Please.

And that's the thing about Evan Daniels—he never says please. Never asks for anything. Just gives and gives and hopes no one notices.

I take a deep breath and type:

Me:Come up. 4B. Fair warning: I'm in pajamas and there's ice cream involved.

His response makes my heart flip.

Evan:As long as you’ve got caramel sauce.

Despite everything, I laugh. Because maybe Cynthia's right. Maybe this is a story worth telling. Even if it's not the one I thought I was writing.

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