Page 25 of On Thin Ice

He’d pushed that night. Said things he shouldn’t have said and saw things he shouldn’t have seen.

And what was worse was that I’d wanted it. Wanted him.

I couldn’t stop thinking about the heat in his voice or the way my body had responded.

And now here I was on the ice, where I was supposed to be a goddamn professional, and I couldn’t get him out of my head long enough to make a clean fucking pass.

Oscar barked my name as we scrambled for a rebound. I snapped back into motion, skated hard, and got there half a second too late. The puck ricocheted off the goalie’s pads and landed right on their star winger’s stick for a breakaway.

My stomach dropped.

I chased like hell, but I couldn’t close the gap. I barely made it to the blue line before the puck sailed past Mantei and hit the back of the twine with a sickeningthunk.

The horn blew. The home crowd roared.

I bent at the waist, hands on my knees, sucking in air as shame washed over me.

Bell skated past me at the end of our shift, his eyes flicking toward me for a brief second. There was something in his expression that made me wince. Concern, maybe? Annoyance?

Whatever it was, it was nothing like the way he’d looked at me almost a week ago. Like he could see into my soul and knew all my deepest, darkest secrets.

I didn’t have time to dwell on it, though. Not when I got thrown back on the ice a couple of minutes later and immediately flubbed a pass that should’ve been routine. The puck bounced off my stick and sailed down the ice for an icing call, forcing our already gassed line back out for the draw.

Coach’s glare burned into me as I skated back to the bench. “Keep your head in it, Harrison!”

I nodded, throat tight, heart pounding. I tried to reset, but the next shift was even worse. I pinched too soon on a board battle, left my man wide open in the slot, and watched helplessly as the puck found his tape and then the back of our net.

When I came off again, my legs heavy and sweat dripping down my brow, Coach didn’t even wait for me to sit before he approached. “You’re done for the night.”

Eleven minutes left on the clock, and I didn’t argue. What would’ve been the point?

I simply dropped to the bench, my chest heaving and my gear soaked through with sweat and shame as I stared straight ahead, my jaw clenched tight enough to crack my molars.

My dentist was going to have a field day at my next appointment.

When the buzzer finally sounded, I didn’t know whether to be relieved or furious. It was our first loss of the regular season, and it felt like that was all down to my piss-poor performance.

Logically, I knew I hadn’t lost the game alone.

But logic and I weren’t exactly on speaking terms lately.

The locker room was quiet. No chirping or post-game bullshit. Just the hiss of the showers and the scrape of gear being stripped off.

I sat there in my own head, the weight of every blown play pressing down on my shoulders and feeling every mistake in my bones.

Across the room, Bell sat with a towel slung around his neck, bent over, unlacing his skates. When he sat back up, his gaze was a hum under my skin. His shoulders were tense, his mouth pressed in a flat line like he wanted to say something but knew better than to try.

Good.

Because I didn’t trust myself not to snap.

By the time I showered and suited back up, half the team had already cleared out. I pulled on my jacket, gave my cuffs a sharp tug, and squared my shoulders.

My dress shoes clicked against the concrete as I followed the rest of the stragglers toward the exit to head to the team bus.

I was almost there when I heard a quiet “Harrison” spoken from behind me.

I turned to see Viggy falling into step beside me. We walked together in silence for a few strides until he said, “You good?”

---