Page 11 of Icing Hearts

Tory takes the ice, skating backward while staring at me with a faint grin. Silently, I curse the butterflies flapping wildly in my abdomen. He lines up at right wing on the far side while Jermaine takes his place at center for the face-off. The crowd roars at the puck drop and just like that, the first game has begun.

When Jermaine wins the face-off Tory guns it for him, slashing his stick, without even pretending to make a play for the puck. The referee blows his whistle and ushers Tory into the penalty box for a two-minute penalty…ten seconds into the game.

Our opponents are on a power play because we’re down a player. I look over at Tory and find that he’s staring me down, a sinister smile across his lips. A minute later, there are raucous cheers from the visitor’s bench when they score on our goalie.

His eyes never leave me for the entirety of his time in the penalty box—not even when our opponents score. I have the distinct feeling that he’s issuing a warning. It’s undeserved and overstepping and sends chills down my spine, but it’s happening, nonetheless.

“What is his problem?” Thomas asks me. I shake my head because, truly, I have no clue. Or maybe I do, and I’m lying to myself. But then I remember his words from lunch, and I’m mad and confused.

All I can do is watch in horror as Tory goes after Jermaine—in what can only be described as an attack—as soon as he’s out of the penalty box. He sails toward Jermaine, slamming him up against the glass. The brutal sound of bodies hitting fiberglass echoes throughout the rink. This time, the hit is legal because Jermaine had the puck, so he gets away with it.

Another minute goes by and Tory slashes again. Penalty number two. Back in the penalty box.

This time, my eyes stay glued to the puck. I’ve watched Tory play hockey dozens of times, but I’ve never seen this. He’s…psychotic, making personal attacks like he has nothing to lose. Even the announcer comments on his behavior. I find myself shrinking, trying to make myself smaller, like his name on my back is now a target.

Tory’s back in the game for all of three minutes. He doesn’t even attempt to score. He follows Jermaine around and, while I can’t hear him, I can tell he’s chirping, goading Jermaine unfairly. Finally, Jermaine halts, cutting the ice with his skates and turns toward Tory. Their helmet cages smack together, and the last thing I see is Tory’s bright, white smile before he tosses his stick and gloves and becomes a blur of fists.

To his credit, Jermaine holds his own and even gets in a few blows of his own until Tory gets him off-balance and pummels him. It takes both referees and a couple teammates to get Tory off Jermaine.

That’s a major penalty. Five minutes in the box.

It’s also when I lose my patience.

Tory skates toward the box, his face void of emotion save for a spark in his eye. Screw that.

When he gets close, I stand up, lean over the wall, and grab his face mask; I yank him toward me, throwing him off-balance. He manages to stay upright, but now he’s grinning broadly, despite the shock painted across his features. I grab his jersey with both hands and…

Let.

Him.

Have it.

Chapter 7

Victory

She thinks she’s not the prettiest girl in school. I think that’s pretty stupid.

My jersey is all twisted in Clara’s little viselike grip; she’s red and screaming in my face, and it’s completely unintelligible and completely beautiful.

And I’m so in love it makes me sick to my stomach. Absolutely disgusting. I’m utterly ashamed at my level of bewitchment.

I don’t care about the score, the number of penalties I’ve incurred pursuing a personal vendetta, or the tongue lashing I’ll be getting from my coach later. All I care about is what’s going on in front of me.

Her. Her. Always her.

We are almost never this close, and I can smell that lavender oil she wears, and I’m higher than any drug could ever get me.

She should be illegal for every man, but especially for me. She should come with a safety warning.Caution: do not operate heavy machinery or attempt rational thought when Clara is near.My eyes dart from one ocean-blue eye to the angry furrow between her brows to the other ocean-blue eye, down to her lips, and back up again.

Eye. Furrow. Eye. Lips.

Eye. Furrow. Eye. Lips. Lips. Lips.

Teeth bared.

Bite me. Please?

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