Page 15 of On Thin Ice

I glanced around, then gave a low whistle. “High standards, Harrison. Anyone ever tell you you’d make a great drill sergeant?”

“Yeah. My ex.”

Oooh, a nugget of personal information. I hadn’t expected that. What else could I get him to reveal?

“Okay,” I said, kicking one foot up onto the coffee table like I hadn’t just been told not to treat the place like a frat house. “Anything else? No loud music? No guests?” I waggled my eyebrows. “No walking around shirtless after a workout?”

His eyes dropped briefly to my chest before he caught himself and looked away. “Just … use common sense.”

“Not really my strong suit, but I’ll do my best.” I tapped my pointer finger against my chin. “One question—what’s your stance on glitter?”

Ethan froze like I’d just threatened to douse the house in gasoline.

“I’m asking hypothetically,” I said quickly, trying not to laugh. “Mostly. I mean, I’m not planning to glitter bomb the living room or anything, but it’s good to know where the line is.”

His jaw flexed so hard I thought I heard his molars crack. “You’re not bringing glitter into my house.”

I beamed. “Noted.”

And just like that, I felt a little bit better.

CHAPTER4

BELL

Ethan was still treating me like a stray cat that’d wandered in off the street and refused to leave. He wasn’t rude exactly, just distant. Cordial in that clipped, professional way that made my skin prickle.

At home, we passed each other like ghosts. In the locker room, we exchanged barely more than nods. And on the ice? Things weren’t great.

In camp, I’d been flying—confident, dialed in, unstoppable. I’d even overheard one of the assistant coaches call me “a monster on the rush.” But now, under the lights and pressure of a real game, I felt like I was skating with cinderblocks strapped to my feet.

The puck moved faster. The guys hit harder. The plays didn’t unfold so much as explode.

“Backcheck, Bell!” Ethan’s voice sliced through the air behind me as I scrambled to recover from a flubbed pass.

I cursed under my breath, doubling back too late as Colorado’s line charged toward the net. Oscar scrambled to close the gap, but the puck was already gone—buried past Mantei before I even reached the slot.

Shit.

My lungs burned as I coasted into the boards, gripping the top of my stick and trying to hide how hard I was breathing. When I slid onto the bench, I caught Assistant Coach Russo glaring like he wanted to nail my ass to the pine.

Ethan didn’t say anything as he sat beside me. Just that same stone-faced expression I was starting to associate with him. After a few beats, he leaned forward, his gloves resting on his knees like nothing fazed him.

Me? I felt like I was fucking drowning, and it wasn’t just the altitude.

I tried to keep my eyes on the ice, but I could feel him beside me, calm, cool, and collected in a way I didn’t know how to be.

It pissed me off.

Worse, it turned me on.

I’d watched this man play for years. Growing up, I’d had a poster of him tacked to my wall. Then, at college, I’d taped it to the inside of my closet door so my roommates wouldn’t fuck with me about it. Watching him on TV had been a thrill; in person, it was something else entirely.

He played like a guy who’d done this a thousand times—mostly because he had. He was smooth. Controlled. Locked in. I used to feel like that—hell, even two weeks ago, I’d felt that way. But now? Out here? I couldn’t seem to get out of my own way.

I leaned back, catching my breath, trying not to sulk.

“You’re overextending,” he said out of the side of his mouth, his voice low so that only I could hear.

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