Page 82 of On Thin Ice

“Oh my god, and Stryker Bell, too!” the older one exclaimed, his eyes widening as he recognized me.

I noticed the immediate shift in Ethan’s posture—the slight stiffening of his shoulders, the microsecond of panic that flashed across his face—but then something remarkable happened. Instead of retreating behind his public persona, he visibly softened. His smile reached his eyes as he dropped into a crouch so he wasn’t towering over the boys.

“Hey guys,” he said, his voice warm in a way I rarely heard him use with anyone but me. “You Aces fans?”

“You’re my favorite player of all time!” the younger brother squeaked while bouncing on his toes. “I have your jersey and everything.” He unzipped his gray puffer coat halfway to reveal the blue and gold Aces logo underneath. “My brother says Bell’s better than you, though.”

The sad, dejected look he tossed Ethan’s way had me barking out a laugh.

Despite just being told I was better, Ethan’s grin widened, and when he rose to his full height, he slung an arm around my shoulder. “Your brother’s right,” he said. “Bell’s the future of the franchise. He’s having a killer rookie season. Way better than mine was.”

I went still beneath his arm, my breath catching slightly. Ethan never touched me in public beyond the occasional fist bump or celebratory hug after a goal. But it wasn’t just the contact—it was the ease with which he’d done it, the casual possessiveness of his limb draped across my shoulders.

More shocking still was the pride in his voice as he spoke about me. Like he wasn’t justokaybeing seen with me, but he wanted to brag about me, wanted these kids to know how he felt about my skills.

The warmth of his palm seeped through my hoodie, and I had to consciously regulate my breathing. I forced my body to remain still, angling my shoulders in a way that felt teammate-appropriate, fighting the instinct to lean into his warmth or, worse, to reach up and cover his hand with mine.

My face felt hot despite the chill in the air, and I silently prayed the dim lighting would hide the flush I knew was spreading across my cheeks.

The older boy turned to face me, his expression suddenly serious. “My coach says you should be on the first line permanently.”

I scratched at the blond scruff dotting my jaw and tried not to blush too brightly. “Oh yeah?”

He crossed his arms over his chest, his brows dipping in an indignant little scowl. It would have been adorable if I wasn’t so uncomfortable. Did I want to be on the first line? Of course. That was the goal, wasn’t it? But just because Iwantedto didn’t mean Ideservedto. I’d started the season sucking pretty badly but had thankfully found my groove right around the time … well, around the time Ethan and I had started fucking.

But it wasn’t just the superstitious stuff that kept me wanting to stay where I was. Ethan and I skated well together. Better than well, in fact. We made each other better. I liked looking over and seeing him barreling down the ice with me. Loved knowing where he was going to be, that he always knew where I was going to be, too. The reason my stats were so good was in large part due to him feeding me the puck.

“Yeah,” the kid said. “You’re on fire right now! You scored nine goals since Thanksgiving.”

“Ten,” Ethan gently corrected him. “He got another one last night against Vegas.”

Obviously, Ethan paid attention to what the team was doing and how we were performing, but the fact that he knew exactly how many goals I’d scored this season shocked me. It probably shouldn’t have—I knew his stats backward and forward, too—but I couldn’t help the grin that split my face.

“That last between-the-legs goal was so sick!” the kid exclaimed.

The boys’ parents finally stepped in, the father looking slightly harried and embarrassed. “Sorry about that. They spotted you and took off running.”

“No problem at all,” Ethan said. “I was just about to ask them if they were watching when Bell scored that hat trick against Seattle back in October.”

“The one where he went top shelf on that breakaway?—”

“—and then he deked the goalie so hard he fell over!”

“Twice! He fell overtwice!”

“I watched the highlights like twenty times?—”

“—and then I made Mom print out a picture of it for my locker?—”

“—but my brother said your backhand goal was the best one!”

The two of them were practically vibrating, words tumbling out in a chaotic stream as they tried to outdo each other in enthusiasm. Their eyes were huge, their hands waving wildly around for emphasis, their voices rising until the younger one was nearly shouting about how he was going to be me for Halloween next year.

“Thanks, guys,” I finally managed when I found my voice. “Just got lucky.”

“Luck?” Ethan scoffed, his arm still heavy across my shoulders. “Don’t let him fool you. Bell has some of the best hands on the team. He’s one of the fastest, too.” His fingers gave my shoulder a light squeeze. “Bell’s already broken all my old college records. I’d bet good money he’s going to break a bunch more.”

The pride in his voice made something twist in my chest. I swallowed hard, trying to remember how teammates acted around each other. Casual. Brotherly. Not like I wanted to turn and kiss him right there between the Fraser Firs and Douglas Pines.

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