Page 1 of ICED
PROLOGUE
JACKO
Icrack three eggs into the bowl and whisk like my life depends on it.
Which, to be fair, it might. If Ollie or Murphy show up early and I haven’t got these muffins in the oven, I’ll never hear the end of it. Not that they care about the muffins. They just like taking the piss. Something about “Jacko’s midlifeBake Offspiral.” I’m twenty-eight. Calm down.
The flour puffs up like smoke as I stir, and I feel my shoulders loosen with every turn of the spoon. Some guys go out drinking after a rough practice. I come home, switch onBake Offreruns, and stress-bake until the kitchen smells like sugar and cinnamon.
Sue me.
It’s quiet in my flat except for the hum of the oven and Paul Hollywood judging someone’s soggy bottom from the telly. My beard’s got flour in it again. I’ll find it later, I always do. I’m elbow-deep in batter, focused on getting the lumps out, when something shifts. That feeling. The one that creeps in when the kitchen goes still.
Loneliness.
It’s not loud, not dramatic. Just there. Constant. Heavy in my chest like a goalie sitting on it.
I’ve got teammates who’d kill to be in my shoes. Star enforcer. Good salary. Fans who chant my name when Iflatten someone into the boards. And don’t get me wrong, I love it. I love the rush, the hit, the fight. But when the crowd goes home and the bruises fade, all I’ve got is this flat, my rolling pin, and a sourdough starter named Dave.
That’s not a joke.
I reach for the chocolate chips and stir them in with a bit too much force. The bowl clatters on the counter, and I wince. Maybe I should get out more. Or get a hobby that doesn’t involve yeast.
Then again, I tried dating. I really did. There was the girl who thought hockey was just ‘a cute little winter game.’ The one who asked if I could beat up a bear (debatable). And the one who said I was “too much”; too big, too quiet, too intense. She wasn’t wrong. I’m a lot. But I’m also not going to apologise for being built like a Viking with anxiety.
The oven beeps. I slide the tray in and set the timer.
Somewhere in the flat, Dave bubbles. I glance at him on the shelf by the window. “You get me, don’t you, mate?”
The starter doesn’t answer. Which is probably for the best.
I wash my hands and grab a tea towel, wiping at the flour dusted on my forearms. My phone buzzes on the counter.
DYLAN: You alive or buried in pastry?
JACKO: I’m thriving. Blueberry chocolate chip muffins this time.
DYLAN: You baking or nesting?
JACKO: Fuck off.
He sends back a laughing emoji, followed by a gif of a giant bear hugging a kitten. That’s me. The bear. Every time.
I roll my eyes and toss the phone down. The truth is, I don’t mind being the soft one. The gentle giant. I don’t need to be the loudest guy in the room. I’ll flatten anyone whomesses with my teammates, but I’ll also make you a lemon tart after.
That’s just who I am.
I don’t know it yet, but the world’s about to throw something, someone, into my life that I’m not ready for. A woman with too many walls, and a little girl with curls and a laugh like confetti.
They’re going to break me wide open in the best way.
And suddenly, everything, hockey,Bake Off, Dave the starter; it all takes a back seat.
Because I might be built for battle, but I’m about to learn how to fight for something a hell of a lot more important than a puck.
I’m about to learn what it really means to protect what matters.
And it starts with muffins.
