Page 15 of ICED
“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, shrugging off my hoodie. “Remind me to mix laxatives into your protein shakes.”
That earns a round of groans and laughs, but Ollie just holds up his phone like he’s documenting the moment. “Quote of the day,” he says solemnly, typing it into his notes. “Jacko threatens mass digestive revenge. Iconic.”
“Can we focus, guys?” I deadpan. “I’ve got ten minutes on-ice before my physio turns into a human cattle prod.”
Dylan slaps my good shoulder as he passes. “They say sarcasm’s a coping mechanism. You alright, big guy?”
I pause, rolling my shoulders. The left one still twinges, but it’s a dull ache now, not the stabbing misery it was twoweeks ago. Progress. “I’m good. Just glad to be moving again.”
Truth is, the sitting still’s been worse than the injury. I’ve missed the ritual; lace-up, head-down, push-off. Missed the clatter of sticks and the glide of blades on fresh ice. Missed the noise. The brotherhood.
Out on the ice, the lights seem too bright at first, but it’s a balm. I step onto the rink tentatively, no stick in hand. That’s still off-limits until the shoulder’s cleared. But even without it, the feel of the ice under my skates is enough to make my chest loosen.
Coach nods from the bench, arms crossed. He won’t say anything sentimental, but his eyes soften when he sees me make that first lap.
“You skate like someone’s nan,” Murphy calls as he zips past me. “She alright, shoulder-wise?”
“She’s resting comfortably,” I call back. “She says you’re a right gobshite, by the way.”
Ollie grins as he catches up to me. “I missed this,” he says. “The chirps. The delicate ballet of toxic masculinity.”
“You been writing poetry again?” I arch a brow.
“Only when I’m emotional,” he deadpans. “Or bloated.”
I laugh, but it’s short-lived. My body’s still stiff, and the twinge in my shoulder nags like a whiny toddler. Mia gave me the green light for light skating, but no contact, no stickwork, and definitely no heroics. Which, for a guy whose entire job is throwing himself into collisions, is basically a cruel joke.
We coast through drills. The others loop in full sets of passes, stops, and checks. I do laps. Occasionally Dylan throws me a grin as he sails by, like he knows exactly how antsy I am.
He does. He had a similar injury last season. Nearly went feral.
“Oi, Jacko!” Murphy calls as we’re heading off-ice. “Heard you’ve been moonlighting as Paul Hollywood.”
“Only if Paul Hollywood was six-six and dead inside,” I reply, peeling off my gloves.
“Dead inside but can do a mean laminated dough,” Ollie adds, nodding thoughtfully. “A dangerous man.”
They’re teasing, but not mean about it. Ever since that viral video of me shoulder-checking a guy twice my size and then handing a kid a box of macarons surfaced, my off-ice hobbies aren’t exactly secret.
“Laminated dough?” Dylan says, squinting. “Is that, like, a fancy sandwich?”
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, pulling off my helmet. “I swear I lose brain cells every time I talk to you lot.”
In the physio room, I lie back while Mia rotates my shoulder through its limited range. It’s not the pain that gets me. It’s the reminder that I’m not whole yet. Not game-ready. Not useful.
“You’re improving,” she says without looking at me. “But don’t get cocky. Overdo it and I’ll ban you from the kitchen as well.”
I blink. “You can’t take away baking.”
“I can,” she says flatly. “And I will. I’ve spoken to Jonno.”
“Snitch,” I mutter.
“Reckless,” she shoots back, patting my shoulder a little too smugly.
When I head back to the locker room, Murphy and Ollie are halfway through some dumb debate about who has the worst penalty minutes this season.
“It’s Jacko, easy,” Murphy insists. “He’s a walking misconduct.”
