Page 155 of ICED
I shake my head, grinning. Idiot.
The lads have been solid, ever since everything happened with Jamie. Quiet when it mattered. Loud when it helped. Ollie’s still doing extra passes by the bakery, like it’s part of his route. Dylan offered to “sort things out” in a way that definitely would’ve landed us both in prison. Even Coach said I could take time if I needed it.
But I don’t want time off.
I want to skate. I want to move.
Because now, when I get on the ice, it’s not about fighting ghosts or proving something. It’s just me. And when I come home, Maya’s there. Lila’s there. My people. My reason.
At the next red light, I text Murphy back.
JACKO: Got lasagne. Got muffins. No forks. You’re on your own.Beer in the truck. Don’t cry.
He sends a sticker of a sobbing cartoon bear. Fitting.
When I pull into the lot behind the rink, Ollie’s already out front, tossing a ball off the side of the building like he’s a bored golden retriever.
“Forgot your leash again?” I call.
He catches the ball one-handed and grins. “Says the man with a toddler sous-chef. Lila tells me you’re afraid of overmixing fairy cakes now?”
“She’s a harsh coach,” I deadpan. “Don’t mess with the batter or you’ll get benched.”
He snorts. “You bringing food in or just vibes?”
“Both.”
We unload the back of the truck together, bags of meals, muffins, a six-pack that Murphy will probably hide from Coach. Inside, the locker room smells like Tiger Balm and the aftermath of protein shakes, but it feels like home. The real kind. The kind you come back to, not the kind you run from.
The guys are already chirping each other, tape flying, jerseys half on. Murphy is holding court from the bench, one sock on, phone in hand.
He looks up when I drop the bags.
“Oh thank fuck,” he says reverently. “If I had to eat one more granola bar for dinner, I was gonna walk into the sea.”
“You live in a flat in the city,” Dylan says, yanking his hoodie over his head. “There is no sea.”
Murph ignores him and rifles through the bags until he finds the lasagne. He doesn’t even heat it up, just grabs a fork from his locker and digs in.
“I thought you said you lost all the forks,” I say.
“Emergency stash. Don’t ask questions.”
Coach walks in then, and the volume drops by half. He eyes the food, the mess, the muffin crumbs on the bench, and sighs like we’ve all personally disappointed him. Then he claps his hands once.
“Ten minutes. Ice. Let’s go.”
Everyone moves. I pull my pads on slow, deliberate. The way I always do. But my chest’s still light. Lighter than it’s been in years.
Because when I’m out there today, clearing the crease, taking hits, skating drills, I’m not thinking about pain or the past or whether I’ve got anything left to prove.
I’m thinking about a little girl in a unicorn apron. A woman who made me believe in home. And a kitchen that smells like cinnamon.
And now I skate for that.
We finish drills and run two short three-on-three bursts, the ice carved up with hard stops and flying shouts. I throw a check on Dylan, who chirps the whole way down.
“Relax, Jacko,” he yells, grinning. “You skate like it’s ballet out here.”
