Page 87 of On Thin Ice

Before I could tell him to shut his fucking mouth, a woman standing beside him snapped, “Fuck, Jethro. You can’t say shit like that.”

He held up his hands. “What? I’m just saying I’d be annoyed is all.”

I was two seconds away from showing him what I looked like whenIwas annoyed when another guy in painted-on skinny jeans and a black polo that looked like it’d been purchased in the kids’ department crowded into the circle. “Seriously, though,” he said, his kohl-lined eyes gleaming, “what’s he like? Off the ice, I mean.” His lips curled into a knowing grin. “He’s very much my type, if you get my meaning.”

I fought the urge to growl.

These people were talking about the man I loved like he was a piece of meat. Like he wasn’t a human man with human emotions and dreams.

I fucking hated it.

“He’s a good teammate,” I said, making sure to keep my tone flat and disinterested.

When a kid in a Santa hat shoved a little girl out of the way and asked for an autograph “for my dad,” I took that as my cue to get the hell out of there.

* * *

I satin my car in the parking garage with my hands clenched around the steering wheel, my heart thudding dully in my chest. I stared through the windshield at a green EXIT sign glowing in the distance.

I could just go home. Skip Bell’s gift altogether.

Except I couldn’t.

Not because he expected anything from me, but because Iwantedto give him something. Something that would convey what I didn’t yet have the guts to say out loud.

I closed my eyes and exhaled slowly, then reached for the ignition with fingers that weren't quite steady.

As I backed out of the spot, I told myself I just needed to keep going. I wasn’t a quitter, and Bell was worth it.

Cafe lights were strung between lampposts in one of Austin’s more upscale outdoor shopping areas, casting a soft glow over storefronts with perfectly curated holiday window displays. The sidewalks were busy but not packed, and a saxophone player on the corner was belting out a jazzed-up version of “Run, Run, Rudolph,” which certainly beat the cursed Mariah remix.

I pushed a nondescript black knit beanie down over my hair, adjusting it nervously before stuffing my hands in the pockets of my jacket. My shoulders hunched instinctively, an old habit of trying to make my 6’2” frame less noticeable. A group of laughing teenagers brushed past me, oblivious, as I turned toward my first stop—a boutique that sold “modern accessories for the modern man.”

Apparently, this meant a lot of wallets and key rings, items Bell already owned and which communicated absolutely nothing about my feelings for him.

The next store I wandered into was filled with houseplants and handmade soy candles, none of which screamed personal or meaningful. Though I did pause at a sign that read “You light my fire” above a display of jars filled with matches, wondering if it was supposed to be ironic.

By the fourth store, I was getting antsy again. Nearly panicking, in fact.

A woman browsing near me glanced up, did a double-take, and grinned. “Hey, Ethan Harrison, right?”

I nodded, offering her a tight smile. “Yeah, hi.”

“My boyfriend’s obsessed with you. Hold on, he’s just—oh, there he is.” She waved, and her boyfriend came trotting over, wide-eyed and already pulling out his phone.

He was chill, friendly. The type of fan who knew the team’s stats and didn’t make it weird.

But the next manwasn’tthat type of fan.

“Where’s your partner in crime?” he asked, looking around me like Bell might jump out at any second. “I heard you two are a package deal now.”

“Um,” I said, scratching nervously at my beard, heat creeping up my neck. My eyes darted around, preparing an exit strategy, an automatic response to feeling cornered I’d developed as a teen. “He’s, uh. Yeah, I don’t really know.”

While that wasn’t technically a lie, it wasn’t the whole truth either. I might not know exactlywhereBell was, but I did know that he was off getting his hair cut at some fancy ass salon an influencer friend had hooked him up with.

Not too much, thank god—I fucking loved his hair—just enough to keep it looking tidy.

“Aw, boo,” the man pouted. “He’s so adorable,” he added with a wistful sigh. “I know he says he likes the ladies, too, but that’s just because he hasn’t had me yet.”

---