Page 23 of As You Ice It

He told me himself last summer that he’s more into academics than sports, though he was great at riding waves. Guess that’s what happens when you grow up close to the beach. If I had to bet after last week, I wouldn’t have put money on Liam continuing after this six-week intro class.

But today, watching him try to make the younger kid whose skate cut him feel better changed my mind. Liam’s arm was dripping blood onto the ice, even as he smiled at the kid and said,It happens. It’s just hockey.

Coordination can come with determination and practice. But the will and the heart to succeed in hockey is harder to come by.

In that moment, Liam showed that he has the mental fortitude he needs in spades.

“Why didn’t you tell us Liam was your ex’s kid?” Eli asks quietly, though I know they can’t hear us in the medical suite.

I shrug.

“Because Cole doesn’t tell us anything,” says Van. This time, I don’t hit him because it’s true. “He doesn’t tell us when he’s working one-on-one with his ex’s kid, or that his ex is here in town, or about whatever has him rushing home lately.” When I look at him, surprised, he adds, “Don’t think we haven’t noticed.”

I definitely thought that.

But him even bringing it up has me pulling out my phone to check the time. I still have about an hour but send a quick text just in case I run late. I’m not leaving until I feel like Naomi and Liam are okay.

No response. I could call, but it probably wouldn’t do any good. It’s probably fine. But now my worry splinters, extending in two separate directions—here and also there. I drag a hand through my hair as I realize every guy in the room is watching me.

“Like right there,” Van says, pointing a finger at me. “Secretive texts.”

“You could talk to us, you know.” From the other side of the room, Logan finally speaks. “We’re your team. You can trust us off the ice, you know.”

“We trust you,” Eli says.

“If you want to talk, some of us are good at listening,” Felix says, giving Van a pointed look.

“Hey, I can be a good listener,” Van says.

“When you’re not talking. Which is …” Eli trails off, pretending to be thinking hard.

“Almost never,” Dominik supplies, shrugging when Van glares.

The tiniest pinprick of guilt needles its way into me as I watch the easy way the guys engage with each other.

I know Logan’s right. I could trust them. From the moment I got here, the guys brought me in. Or—attempted to. They even added me to the group chat, which most days I regret. But even if I don’t engage as much as most of them, I’ve made it a habit to at least read through all the messages at night. I usually find myself smiling. I just happen to lurk more than I text.

This season, I’ve found myself ignoring the group chat and talking more in a separate text thread with Wyatt. He left last summer to play for Boston, and maybe that’s the key—Wyatt isn’t here. It’s easier to open up with a guy I don’t have to make eye contact with or see in his briefs—orless—almost daily.

Not that I’ve opened up very much to Wyatt. But I’ve said more to him than to the guys currently in this room.

I assumed they showed up here for curiosity’s sake, and maybe that is partially true. But I realize now they’re here because they’re trying to support me.

Meanwhile, I’m doing my best to push them away.

It doesn’t feel right or good to be called on it.

Connecting with people has never been my strong suit. Chemistry on the ice—no problem. But off … it’s never come easy. Especially after my teenage years and how things changed with my family. The rejection I felt—still feel—left a crater inside me. I’m self-aware enough to know this, but it doesn’t necessarily help me know how to move past it. The rare times I’ve attempted to open up with other people, I regretted it.

Naomi and I lock eyes through the glass. One beat. Two.

Something passes between us—a wordless exchange that makes my heartbeat quicken and a tiny bubble of hope inflate in my chest. Her expression softens slightly, the sharpness dissipating like fog. But then Liam says something, and she turns away.

“That,” Van says in his most punchable voice, “is the face of a woman scorned. Dude—what’d youdoto her? Must have been bad.”

I swallow. “It’s complicated.”

I don’t tell them my theory that she’s scared and feels a lack of control, which is manifesting in frustration toward me.

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