Page 10 of Icing Hearts

I toss my tray onto the gray, laminate lunch table, muttering an apology for interrupting one of Jack’s speeches about student government drama. He’s the junior vice president. Jack is smarter than people give him credit for. His friend group is exclusively female. As a straight man, he’s perfectly positioned himself as a trusted friend who is the go-to recommendation whenever an adjacent friend needs a date for a pal.

“Victor troubles?” Jasmine Moore chimes from beside me. She twists one of her mahogany braids, angling her head so I have a full view of her brilliant smile.

I shrug. “It’s nothing.”

“At least he talks to you.” Her expression is decidedly sympathetic. Jasmine is a self-proclaimed empath. I mean, she’s right, she definitely is one, I just wish she wouldn’t talk about it so often.

We fall into a comfortable chatter about the first hockey game and the party after. Britt Davis, a shoo-in for the class athlete superlative, tells us she’ll be driving her family’s SUV so we can all carpool after the game. She’s almost always the designated driver because she, like me, has a lot riding on a full scholarship. Hers will be for hockey, just like Tory. Sometimes it feels like everyone here plays hockey. Such is the blessing of living in the state that produces the highest number of NHL athletes every year.

The conversation drifts to makeup products I can’t afford and TV shows I haven’t watched. Over the years, I learned how to stay abreast of the major plot points by searching up episode summaries. I laugh and comment at all the right moments, but even if I had the streaming subscriptions, which my dad would never pay for, I wouldn’t have time to watch.

Our school’s hockey rink is adjacent to the gym with a locker room and weight room connecting the two buildings. The rink is three times larger than the school. Rumor has it Tory’s dad paid to have the old one demolished and a new arena with stadium seating built in its place. I guess he didn’t want his star playing in an old rink.

The locker rooms and training facilities are brand new, too—complete with ice baths, cryotherapy, hyperbaric chambers, and a sauna. When you walk from the gym into the weight room, it’s like walking from one era to another. The gymnasium is scuffed and even the painted cinderblock walls have those black marks made by kicking rubber soles against the ground.

The vestibule between the two facilities is pristine, complete with the school mascot tiled into the floor, up-lit trophy cases, and TVs playing past-season highlights. I stayed after school and worked in the library until it was time to walk over to the rink. Timidly, I peer through the door into the locker room and see the cheerleaders finishing up signs made of multicolored posterboard. They’re frantically scooping up markers and glitter pens, clucking about needing to vacate before the players come in to suit up. I notice a neatly folded jersey on each stool in front of the gear lockers, each labeled with a player’s name and number. Some of the cheerleaders have already donned the jersey of their assigned hockey player to wear during that game—a tradition.

A boy walks by holding a six-pack of green water bottles and a clipboard. I tell him I’m looking for Clover, and he beckons me to follow him into an office. He introduces himself as Thomas Schmidt, a freshman who loves the sport but can’t play due to his “hardware”. When I give him a confused look, he lifts up the pant leg of his khakis and shows me his prosthetic. I nod, understanding. He says he could technically still play with it but his mom won’t hear of it, so he’s relegated himself to the sidelines with hopes of being a coach someday.

A girl who I recognize as a senior is sitting behind the desk typing. She shoos off Thomas to finish filling the water bottles and introduces herself as Clover. Clover is about half a foot taller than me but shares my skin and hair coloring.

Growing up, most of my classmates looked like me, courtesy of the state being a prominent destination for German, Swedish, and Norwegian immigrants back in the day. It’s gotten slightly better in the last few years, but our area is significantly lacking in diversity. Tory must have felt like he’d stumbled upon a cult when he first moved to town.

Clover finishes typing up the starting roster and prints it out. On our way to deliver it to the announcer’s booth, she gives me a tour of the facilities. We’re allowed to work in the coaches’ offices on hockey stuff during practice and before games. She shows me the athletic director’s office with the ice maker and sink used to fill the water jugs and make ice packs. We pass by a set of narrow cubbies used as mailboxes for all the players, managers, and coaches. One of them already has my name on it. We come here to get notes that allow us out of class early on away game days or hand in permission slips for bus trips. I don’t ask but assume that this is also where I’ll pick up my paycheck each week.

After delivering the roster, we walk back through the locker room and into the offices to finish up a few things. Tory and the other captains are in their assigned spots, donning their pads. I get an eyeful of averyscantily clad Tory the second I walk in and drop the clipboard in my hands with a clatter that echoes through the room.

Chapter 6

Clara

My mouth gapes. I can’t help it. I really try, but my goodness, the man is in nothing but boxers and butt pads. To make matters worse, my feet decide to cement themselves to the floor. Tory looks back at me. He does the eyes, lips, eyes thing and shakes his head slightly while pulling a white compression shirt over his chiseled, tattooed back and shoulders. I knew he had tattoos from his copious shirtless photos on social media. But seeing them in real life is a different matter altogether.

“Stop drooling, Charity,” he mocks me with a self-satisfied smirk.

I sputter momentarily until I pull it together and tap into the detached overt flirting that typically colors our interactions. “Then stop being so beautiful, you devil.” Clover giggles as I stoop to pick up the clipboard and flip my curls over my shoulder.

His gaze sears through me as I follow Clover into the office. We greet the visiting team and show them to their locker room. A few of the guys are nearly as dreamy as Tory, and I’m more than happy for the distraction. Jermaine Miller, senior captain of our opponents, makes a few self-deprecating jokes as he peg-walks in his skates toward the ice to warm-up with his team. I recognized him from hockey articles I’ve read in the local paper and introduced myself when we showed his team to the locker room.

Jermaine is tall and cute and has the longest lashes I’ve ever seen in my life. He knows they don’t stand a chance to win, and I can’t help but giggle when he contemplates faking an injury to avoid Tory’s wrath.

“Or maybe I should just pass the puck right to him, save myself the trouble. What do you think?”

We pause at the open rink doors.

“It would definitely throw him off. Certainly worth a shot. Amato takes everything too seriously,” I remark.

“Okay, here’s the plan. We let Amato run up the score by ten in the third so we can get out of here early and I can take you out. Deal?” He smiles unceremoniously, which tells me he doesn’t truly believe this interaction will result in a date. Just some harmless flirting. All in good fun.

“Tempting…” I drift off as I glance toward the ice. My intent is to be mysterious and flirtatious, but instead I shift uncomfortably. Tory looks toward me, skates immobile, from the center of the ice, wearing a look of pure hatred.

Jermaine follows my gaze, catching an eyeful of what, or rather, who, has stolen my focus. He cusses under his breath and mutters, “Never mind,” before forfeiting the plan with a half-smile and joining the rest of his team.

When I walk through the locker room to get a team sweatshirt from the supply closet, I see Tory’s jersey sitting on his stool and remember his assigned cheerleader was out sick today. For half a second, I debate leaving it. But after the weird look he gave me, I grab the jersey and pull it over my sweatshirt.

Already the stands are packed with people decked out in school colors. I spot Tory’s family a couple rows up behind our bench. His mother wears a black faux-fur jacket and Cartier jewelry, and she oozes new money. Beside her is Tory’s older sister with her daughter and Tory’s dad in the next seat. You’d think he would be cold and detached, a drill-sergeant ready to critique his gifted offspring. While his all-black designer outfit is certainly intimidating, he wears a warm smile and looks genuinely happy to be here.

Tory and the team come to the bench, and he sits beside me, taking off his helmet and funneling a stream of water. Out of my peripheral vision, I see him look me up and down and give a slight nod. He doesn’t demand that I remove the jersey. Somehow, deep down, I knew he wouldn’t. One of the other guys sees the jersey and makes a kissy sound but Tory levels him with a look.

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