Page 124 of Pucking Strong

Actually, this is helping. I’m not even thinking about the devastation that could come when I go to Henrik and throw myself at him. Again.

This has to be some kind of record, right? It’s only been four days since the man of my dreams confessed to feeling not nothing for me. Since he said he’s willing to try feeling something. And then I had to go and invite Colin fucking Holliday to a game. Now the something Henrik is feeling is pain and regret, thinking Colin is here as some kind of date.

My god, as if. Colin Holliday? The man eats yogurt with a fork. He wears boot-cut jeans. He thinks Lunchables are an acceptable form of charcuterie. I quite literally would never.

I duck into the first room I find with an unlocked door. There’s nothing remotely freezer-shaped in here. Just some janitorial equipment and dusty boxes of who-knows-what. I slip back into the hall and try the next room. This one is packed full of folding chairs.

“If I were a freezer, where would I hide?” I say to myself, hurrying back out to the hall.

Down around the corner, there’s a food prep room. It’s kind of out of the way, and too small for the needs of the team. As an intern, I’d go in there sometimes and use the microwave. Worth a shot, right? Maybe some asshole decided the freezer was lonely and needed to be reunited with a proper kitchen.

I break into a jog, taking a left, then a right, sliding to a stop in front of the door labeled, “101-A.” Reaching out, I jiggle the handle. It opens. I shove the door with my shoulder, step inside, and turn on the lights. They hum to life in that way fluorescents do.

“Aha!”

Sitting under a flickering light panel, right next to an industrial fridge, is a small deep freeze. There’s even a peel-and-stick Rays logo stuck to the front. I flip open the lid. Stacked inside are a ton of gel ice packs in a range of sizes. There’s no way I can just drag this whole freezer down the hall. It’s not on wheels. Someone’s gonna need to get a dolly.

Looking around, I hurry over to the sink and open the lower cabinet.

“Yes!”

I snatch up the roll of garbage bags and tear one loose. Opening it with a furious shake, I grab several different sizes of ice pack and shove them in the bag. The plastic strains with the weight of the packs as I sling the whole thing over my shoulder like some kind of sporty Santa Claus. Dashing from the room, I cut the light and run down the hall towards the PT suite.

“’Scuse me,” I call out, ducking around the guys milling in the hallway.

Around the corner, the EMs are furiously sharpening skate blades, getting ready for second period. The high-pitched squeal of the sharpener pierces the senses, leaving the faint smell of burning metal in the air.

“Coming through!” I shout. “Hey, open that door!” Someone pulls the PT door open, and I stride in. “I have ice packs!”

There’s a flurry as the other PTs rush forward, digging into the bag as I set it down on the first empty massage table.

“Sweet!”

“Where the hell did you find them?”

“You’re our hero, Ted.”

“Karlsson, you want some ice for your knee too?”

I freeze, heart in my throat. Slowly turning, I see Henrik sitting on the farthest massage table. He’s got the top half of his kit off. His shoulders look pink, like someone was just massaging him, loosening his tight muscles. I knew he took a hard hit out there. First into the boards, then down to the ice. I told Karro he was fine in the moment, but I saw the way it zapped his speed.

“I got it,” I say, taking the ice pack from Jeremy’s hands.

Henrik looks as tense as a cornered lion as I walk up to him, my humble offering of ice in hand. He says nothing as I step up to the table and drape the ice pack over his shoulder. I grab a wrap and gently secure the pack in place. He lets me, still saying nothing.

I can’t bear this fucking silence. I’m crawling out of my skin. Leaning in, I whisper, “Henrik, Colin is just a friend.”

He stiffens, leaning away.

“We’re not—we’venever.” I place a hand on his unwrapped shoulder. “He’s straight. Plus, I’m totally out of his league,” I add with a weak smile.

He looks up at me with those sad eyes, the denim blue of his irises looking so faded and tired.

On instinct, I cup his bearded cheek. “Please don’t look at me like that. It’s not fair, okay? I didn’t do anything wrong. Meet Colin after the game, and he’ll tell you himself. He barely tolerates me. He calls me ‘hopeless.’”

Lifting a hand, he covers mine on his cheek. “I don’t know how to do this,” he admits, his voice low.

“Do what?”

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