Page 16 of On Thin Ice

I blinked. “What?”

“On your entry. You’re forcing the puck instead of reading the support.” He didn’t look at me, just kept watching the play unfold in front of us. “You’re playing like you don’t trust anyone to be where they’re supposed to be.”

I wanted to be pissed. I should’ve been. But the weirdest thing was that his tone wasn’t harsh or rude. He wasn’t talking to me like I was some idiot rookie who didn’t know better. It was just … matter-of-fact. Reasonable.

Still, I couldn’t help needling him. He’d gotten under my skin, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to return the favor.

I dragged my water bottle from the holder and took a long swig. “Thanks for the tip, Dad.”

He didn’t respond.

Figured.

* * *

I trudgeddown the hotel hallway behind Ethan, my gear bag slung over my shoulder. My thoughts were still chasing each other in circles like a pack of angry squirrels.

Every missed pass. Every blown opportunity. Every shift that I couldn’t settle into. I was replaying them all on a loop I couldn’t seem to turn off. Too slow on the backcheck. Too early on the pinch. That turnover in the second period?

Fucking amateur hour.

The fluorescent lights lining the hall buzzed faintly, a constant drone in my ears that only made everything worse. My suit jacket felt too tight across my shoulders, and the collar of my dress shirt scratched at my neck like sandpaper. I’d already loosened my tie twice, then re-tightened it because, for some reason, that felt like the only thing I could control right now.

I hated being like this. Like my brain was stuck in a spin cycle.

I kept trying to focus on the carpet pattern, on how many doors we passed, but nothing clicked. My free hand kept fidgeting with the key card, flipping it over and tapping it against my leg.

At this point, I wasn’t even sure I was breathing right.

Ahead of me, Ethan moved with steady purpose. He probably hadn’t overanalyzed a single second of that game. Had probably already compartmentalized it, filed it in some mental spreadsheet and moved the fuck on.

I wanted that. That calm. That control. The ability to just let things go.

Instead, I spiraled in silence, chasing his footsteps down a hallway that somehow felt three miles long.

Eventually—finally—he stopped in front of a door and tapped the white card against the lock. The red light flashed. He did it again, and the lock turned green and a clicking sound filled the space. He pushed the door open without speaking a word to me.

“Home sweet home,” I muttered under my breath as I followed him inside.

The room was fine. Generic. Two queen beds, gray carpet, blackout curtains already drawn tight. Everything smelled faintly like bleach and that overly-perfumed soap that places like this bought in bulk.

Without hesitation, he walked straight to the bed farthest from the door and stepped around to its far side. Not even an offer to flip a coin for it. Whatever. He was the vet; I was the rookie. That was just how things worked.

Would have been nice to at least pretend I had a choice in the matter, though, I thought as I watched, mildly horrified, as he hefted his suitcase onto the crisp white duvet right near his pillows.

“Bold move, dropping that biohazard right where your face is gonna go,” I said, shucking my tie off over my head.

I watched as he slipped out of his suit jacket and draped it neatly over the back of the desk chair, like my voice was nothing more than a part of the room’s ambient noise.

“So,” I said, trying again. “Any weird bedtime rituals I should know about?”

He didn’t look up from where he was toeing off his shoes. “You snore, I smother you with a pillow.”

I blinked. “Wow. You really know how to make a guy feel welcome.”

He glanced up, the faintest glint of something in his eyes—annoyance, probably, but I was choosing to believe it was the beginning of fondness.

“I don’t snore,” I said. “But I do talk in my sleep. Usually, it’s sexy stuff, so… umm … fair warning, I guess.”

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