Page 27 of On Thin Ice

I blew out a breath as I moved to the bed closest to the window, sinking down on its edge. Elbows on my knees. Head cradled in my hands.

I needed to get it together before this whole thing spun even further out of control.

The lock clicked.

I sat up straight, scrubbing my hands over my face as the door swung open.

Bell stepped inside, his bag slung over his shoulder, his hair still damp from his post-game shower. He paused, wariness flickering on his face when he saw me just sitting there.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low, careful.

I lifted my chin. “Hey.”

He shut the door behind him, the sound seeming to echo loudly in the room. The air between us buzzed with everything that had happened out on that patio, everything we hadn’t said since.

Silently, he made his way to the other bed, dropping his bag by the nightstand. He toed off his shoes, his movements slower than usual. More deliberate.

He sank down onto the edge of his bed, his fingers working at the cuffs of his dress shirt. I stared as he rolled the sleeves up, one then the other, baring forearms dusted in light gold. His hands—strong, sure, and unfairly graceful—moved with the kind of unhurried focus that made my skin prickle and my mouth go dry.

“You okay?” he asked, not looking at me as he rocked onto his hip and pulled his phone out of his pocket, placing it screen-side down on the table between our beds.

I exhaled slowly through my nose. “Fine.”

I couldn’t stop staring as he flopped backward with a quiet grunt and draped an arm over his eyes. His dress shirt pulled tightly across his chest with the movement.

For a minute, all I could hear was the hum of the heater and the occasional car horn blaring outside. The silence stretched between us, humming like a live wire just waiting to snap.

“What happened out there tonight?” he asked eventually, sliding his arm off his face and glancing over at me.

I barked out a humorless laugh. “You mean me playing like shit?” I raised an eyebrow, silently challenging him to deny it.

“Everyone has bad games.”

“Not me.” It came out low, rough, like it hurt to say out loud. “I don’t get to fuck up like that.”

Bell didn’t say anything, but the look on his face—soft around the edges, like he saw too much—twisted something sharp in my chest.

He exhaled slowly, and the sound of it curled low in my gut, hot and unbearable.

I couldn’t handle that look from him. Not tonight. Not when I already felt like I was hanging on by a thread.

I shot to my feet and stalked to the dresser, yanking open a drawer—just needing something to do with my hands. Anything to keep them from shaking. “You can take the first shower,” I said over my shoulder.

He hesitated. “Already had one at the rink.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was worse than that. It was charged. Heavy with everything we hadn’t said and all the things I was terrified to admit.

I shoved the drawer closed and turned, restless energy crackling under my skin.

Bell rotated to face me, his feet planted on the floor in the space between our beds. His hands were loose at his side. He looked relaxed, composed. Like he wasn’t the reason my entire life felt like it was teetering on the fucking edge.

I scrubbed a hand over my mouth, pacing a short, jagged line across the room.

The way he was acting—so damn calm—made something ugly twist inside me. It wasn’t fair. He was the one who’d pushed and pushed. Who’d seen more than he should have. Who’d made me feel too much.

My chest tightened, my breath coming faster.

“Are you just gonna sit there and pretend my backyard never happened?” I forced out from between clenched teeth before I could stop myself. “All fucking week, you’ve given me the silent treatment. Let me stew in it. What the fuck is wrong with you, man?”

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