Page 2 of On Thin Ice

I plastered on what I hoped looked like an unbothered smile. I couldn’t let anyone—least of all that asshole—see how much that thought ate away at me.

Last season, I’d spent longer than expected recovering from shoulder surgery, which had done two things: dropped me down a line and driven home the excruciating point that I was one bad injury away from calling time on my career.

“Yeah, yeah. Very funny.” I raised my nearly empty beer in salute. “To the next generation of Aces.”

“Fuck. You seen this kid’s TikTok?” Lars Söderberg mused from the stool to my right as he scrolled past dozens upon dozens of slickly produced videos featuring the Bell’s handsome face.

“Yeah, it’s something else,” I told him, swallowing down another mouthful of beer.

That was the thing about these young, up-and-coming guys. They weren’t just great athletes; they were brands as much as they were players, something I’d never fully wrapped my head around—or wanted to.

Somehow, between tearing up the ice at Thackeray and earning his degree, Bell had found the time to cultivate a massive online following. Every post he made sent his fans into a frenzy. Whether he was proudly discussing his sexuality or sharing one of his many body positivity mantras, they ate up everything he put out.

Sometimes, I wondered if they were drawn more to his persona than his hockey skills.

And really, who could blame them? The kid had the kind of looks that made people sit up and take notice—bright blue eyes, blond hair that somehow always looked artfully tousled, and an all-American jawline that was practically begging for its own fan club.

He was the kind of guy who could flash a grin and have people eating out of the palm of his hand. And judging by the thirst traps he frequently posted, he knew it, too.

More than once, I’d scrolled to one of his gym selfies, only to get caught up in the comments section where guys and girls alike lost their damn minds. That kind of confidence was something I could barely wrap my head around, let alone understand.

It was hard not to feel a twinge of something—envy, maybe—at how comfortable Stryker was in his own skin.

I’d never allowed myself that luxury, not back at Thackeray and certainly not in the NHL.

“Ugh,” I muttered, tossing back another drink of my beer. “Dante’s already on my ass about posting more than once a month. I told her the Aces didn’t pay me enough to dance on TikTok.”

“Maybe you should put up a couple of shirtless pics, E,” Murdock teased, bumping against my shoulder with a playful smirk. “Do it for the ‘gram, or whatever the kids are saying these days.”

Chet, never one to miss an opportunity to be a dick, came up alongside me. He rested his elbow in a pile of beer spooge and grimaced, yanking it back with a disgusted look on his face. “I’ll pay you a hundred bucks to keep your shirton. No one wants to see that.”

As far as taunts went from this guy, it was fairly benign, but still.Anythingout of Chet’s mouth was one word too many.

“Fuck off, all of you,” I muttered, though I made sure to sound more amused than pissed.

Thankfully, they decided I was too boring and moved on to fuck with someone else.

I let my smile slip from my face.

My phone buzzed again with another text from Ryan. This time, it was a photo of Stryker celebrating a game-winning goal, his fist raised in the air as his teammates mobbed him on the ice. His lips were tilted to the side in what looked like a self-satisfied smirk.

Yeah, the kid knew exactly how good he was.

“Yo, E! Stop brooding and get your ass over here!” one of the guys called from across the room, causing me to slam my phone face down into a shallow puddle of beer like I’d just been caught watching porn.

Which, honestly? It would have been less humiliating than the fact that I’d spent an entire minute staring down at Stryker’s sweaty, matted blond hair, wondering what it would feel like gripped between my fingers.

For a thousand different reasons, including our considerable age difference, I had zero business lusting after Stryker Bell.

You’re not that much older than him,the voice inside my head tried to convince me as I grabbed a handful of napkins to wipe my phone down, hoping I hadn’t done any lasting damage. When it was dry, I shoved it into my front pocket with a shake of my head.

Yeah, I was done here—time to bail.

Waving over my shoulder, I made my way toward the front door, rolling my eyes at the drunken calls of “Is it past your bedtime already?” and “You’re no fun!” that echoed in my ears as I stepped outside, the hot Austin night enveloping me.

* * *

I reachedinto my fridge and grabbed another beer, knowing I would probably regret it in the morning, before strolling aimlessly into my living room.

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