Page 11 of ICED
She raises an eyebrow. “Is that what we’re calling the cute single mum now?”
“Mia.”
She lets me go, just enough to let me sit up. “I’m just saying. Be careful. If you like her, like really like her, don’t do the thing where you pretend you’re just being nice. You’re not subtle.”
“I’m not doing anything,” I grumble.
“You brought her supplies. You offered to bake. You talked about her like she’s a Bakewell tart.”
“I talked about her like she was serious,” I correct. “Because she is. Not someone you joke about. Not someone you mess with.”
That shuts Mia up for a moment. Then she nods. “Good.”
“Dylan needs to learn about confidentiality.” I mutter almost under my breath.
We don’t say much after that. She tapes my shoulder, gives me a schedule for the week, and shoves me out to join modified training.
On the ice, I feel like a bloody elephant doing ballet. No checking, no shots over at full throttle, and absolutely no fights, even if Murphy keeps chirping me just to tempt fate.
“Nice pirouette, Gingerbread Man!”
“Keep it up, I’ll laminate your face into the boards,” I call back.
Coach keeps a close eye but lets me skate drills. I focus on clean transitions, and edge control. The things that get missed when the job’s usually to smash and clear.
Afterwards, I help collect stray pucks and swap stick tape on the bench, ignoring the pang that comes from not scrapping in the corners like usual. I miss it. The hit, the adrenaline. But I miss Maya’s bakery even more.
Which is mad.
She’s probably elbow-deep in dough by now, scowling adorably at a batch that’s risen unevenly. The idea makes my chest ache in a weird, warm way.
Post-training, I shower quickly and head across town to the community centre. I’ve got a Tupperware box full of honey oat rolls in my rucksack and a laminated recipe card Maya said she was missing.
Bright posters line the walls. Kids’ voices echo from a games room. It feels lived-in. Like a real hub.
Inside the kitchen, Maya’s just pulling a tray from the oven. Her cheeks are flushed, hair tied back in a messy ponytail, forearms dusted in flour. She looks like art. Domestic, radiant chaos.
“Hey,” I say, holding up the bread. “Peace offering?”
She smiles, soft and surprised. “You bake more than anyone I’ve ever met.”
“Occupational hazard.”
She arches an eyebrow. “Of being a pro athlete?”
“Of having anxiety that kneads itself into bread. Meet Dave.”
She laughs, genuine and low. I feel it everywhere.
I lean on the counter, watching her pipe icing onto cooled cinnamon buns. “You’ve got good hands.”
She glances at me, expression unreadable. “That supposed to be a line?”
“No,” I say quickly. “Just a compliment. You work like you care.”
She studies me for a second, then nods. “So do you.”
It’s quiet for a bit. Just the hum of the oven and the rustle of parchment paper.
