Page 18 of Icing Hearts

I dig through the cubby, reaching my fingertips all the way to the back to see if there’s a note or anything. All I find is a white envelope with a cashier’s check in it for sixty dollars. My first paycheck, it seems.

The internal debate lasts half a second. I only wore the jersey for the first game because Tabitha was out sick. This is different. This is intentional.

This. Is a statement.

I’m left to question why on earth Tory is choosing now—this year, this game—to make such a statement. Why he’s taking down a brick in a wall I’ve painstakingly built between us. Even if it’s just a step toward friendship, it still doesn’t add up. Not that I expect him to open that stupid, beautiful mouth and explain himself. That sort of hope is a fools’ errand at best.

I carry two sets of filled green water bottles with orange lids out to the bench. Tory’s eyes find me almost immediately, and I shrink beneath his gaze and, for once, wish it was anywhere but on me. He slices up the side of the rink until he reaches me. I glance over and feel my cheeks flush when I realize he’s staring, while keeping pace with me as I walk.

Suddenly, Tory smacks his stick against the fiberglass and shouts, “Put it on!”

My heart pounds at the shock of the noise, and my nostrils flare with indignation at the fact that he thinks he can order me around. I raise my chin and keep walking, stashing the bottles under the bench and plopping down next to Clover. She eyes me with suspicion, and I shrug her off. This isn’t something I want to discuss. Tory won’t take the hint.

He skates up, taking his place at left wing, which just so happens to be the closest position to the bench. Instead of lining up, though, he leans over the half wall and says, “Not gonna score a single goal until you’re in my jersey, Charity.”

“Stop lying.”

“Try me.” He wags his brows.

The referee blows the whistle, Vince wins the face-off and sends the puck toward Tory, setting up a quick play to move it up the ice. Unfortunately for our side of the scoreboard, Tory cuts in toward the crease. But he’s slow and his stick handling makes the shot predictable and the goalie freezes the puck with ease. It was all sloppy—or so I think. Tory glides down the ice and pops into the bench box for a line change.

“Could’ve been one-zip,” he whispers.

My mouth hangs open and I snap it shut. I convince myself that he’s lying.

Two crappy passes and three missed shots later, the first period ends. I’m no longer convinced he’s lying, especially when Tory stares me down as the team skates toward the locker room. A sick feeling twists in my stomach as I refill water bottles with Thomas and Clover.

Coach is red in the face when the team comes back out. He puts in the second line, so Tory is on the bench. Thomas tries to sit next to me but Tory glares. Poor Thomas is completely befuddled so I elbow him and finally gets the hint. Our temperamental star sits next to me and fiddles with the corner of his stick tape. Second line will only be out for another half a minute at the most.

“Done playing games?” he says.

I cross my arms. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“Please, Charity.” Tory looks at me and I peer, side-long at his earnest expression.

A resolved sigh escapes me and I know I’ll give in to him. That I always will. But I won’t make it easy.

“Score a goal and I’ll reconsider,” I tell him.

First line flies out onto the ice and our goalie sends the puck to defender. After a few quick passes, Tory is in possession. He dances around an opposing forward, then an opposing defender then passes to Vince. Vince shoots and the goalie butterflies his pads. The puck rebounds and Tory slams it in the five-hole with expert precision.

Tory eyes me triumphantly and I shake my head. Annoying and unpredictable don’t even begin to describe our star player. This is just who he is. He’s either violently cut-throat, or irreverent to the point of obnoxiousness. There’s no in-between.

With a huff, I scurry along the front of the stands and dart into the locker room. In a flurry, I wrench the jersey from my mailbox and hastily pull it over my head, not bothering to straighten my hair back into place. I’m too ruffled, both in and out. All because of Tory.

Upon walking out to the bench a second time, Tabitha gives me a funny look through the glass and purses her lips. I make a mental note to defend myself to her later, when she can actually hear me. She isn’t the type to gossip in the meantime, and if she whines to the other cheerleaders, oh well. She’s been letting me do the grunt work for a year while she gets the glory of wearing the jersey, so she doesn’t have room to complain . Tory is one of the only players who hasn’t figured out his locker fairy because the cheerleaders pull names from a hat for that.

Tory skates backward, slowing just long enough to get an eyeful of me in the jersey. A lopsided grin ghosts across his lips. He gives an approving nod before pivoting to rocket down the side of the rink. Still, his expression screams that he knows something I don’t know. I brush off the notion and focus on stats and anything but his sultry eyes peering through that helmet for the next hour.

Before the cheerleaders leave, I jog out to the bleachers and tell Tabitha about finding the jersey in my mailbox and that I have no idea why it was there. She nods and raises her eyebrows like she knows why and tells me I’m a fool if I don’t. But she understands I didn’t pull a fast one, and that’s all I care about.

The conversation delays me enough that most of the players have cleared out of the locker room. Coach saves the post-game analysis for practice if it’s a midweek game. I’m on my way to find Clover and Thomas so we can finish up our work for the night. There’s a big physics test I need to study for and…

“Clara!” Coach Anderson bellows from his office as I attempt to scoot by. I halt. “Please come in here.”

I obey because it’s Coach and we aren’t very close, but he is very intimidating, especially after hearing how he had yelled at Tory. In the five steps it takes to backtrack, my heart rate doubles, then triples when I see who else is inside the office.

Tory sits in one of the cheap waiting-room-style chairs, leaning back with his hands laced behind his head. Across from him is our history teacher, and I panic.

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