Page 28 of Icing Hearts

I laugh heartily. “I doubt that.”

“And the jersey?” she asks.

It’s a question I’ve been waiting for so I’m ready with a sufficient response. “The game you wore my jersey was my best in a long time.” I hike up my right shoulder, eyes glued to the road. “I’m superstitious.” I’m not. Not at all. But at least 90 percent of the guys on the team would do the same thing and they won’t question it, even though it is quite a statement.

The truth is that I’m being pulled in two opposite directions. I want Clara. I need Clara. I’m in love with Clara. I have been for years. But there are external factors keeping me from expressing my heart’s desires to her. Truly, I believe she feels the same way for me, but she’s held up by external factors of her own. At least that’s what I tell myself. If all of her theatrical flirting has been in jest, I don’t think I’ll ever get over it. But in order for me to find out once and for all, something has got to give. Basically, I need to make a move, or move on. Though I don’t think I could, even if I wanted to. It’s not like I haven’t tried.

When we pull up to the school, other guys are parking and getting out of their cars. Most of them drive luxury cars or SUVs. Between the gear and rink fees, hockey is one of the more expensive sports. That’s why I convinced my parents to start an anonymous scholarship fund for my old club team a couple years back. Right before I got to high school, I found out one of our best defenseman wasn’t going to play because his parents couldn’t afford it anymore.

Hockey is a notoriously expensive sport. Sticks alone can cost hundreds. Plus helmets, pads, jerseys, skates, pucks. And that’s not even taking into account registration fees for teams and tournaments. But I think hockey is for everyone. I shouldn’t be the best simply because my family has more money than anyone should.

Gifted players bowing out due to money will never sit well with me. So, we did something about it. It’s also why they funded the new facilities at school and pay for away game buses. They’re even funding the team going to a week-long tournament in February, and now, the managers will be going, too. Including Clara.

I park in the back, hoping to avoid having anyone see me arrive with Clara. To my dismay, Vince pulls in next to me and gives us both a funny look with arched brows when he sees her climb out of the passenger’s seat.

Vince got dumped a few weeks ago and I swear he’s been eyeing Clara. In fact, he’s always had a soft spot for her, but I’d assumed it was platonically motivated since he was absolutely obsessed with his ex-girlfriend. Now, I’m noticing the changing tide.

We’ve played hockey together for years. Even during the year Vince was in high school while I was in eighth grade, we still played on a travel team together. He’s not terribly attractive but his over-inflated sense of self and baffling level of confidence more than makes up for it. In addition, he’s weirdly competitive with me. It started as soon as I got to high school a year after him and has persisted on and off the ice.

Sure enough, he quickly sidles up next to her and offers to carry her bag. I mentally kick myself for not thinking to do it, and physically kick him in the back of the leg to show my displeasure at his feigned chivalry. Vince could not be further from gallant.

I snicker as he nearly goes down. Vince is a senior captain, so he has age on his side as well as being an inch taller than me. I notice Clara tuck her hair behind her ear. It’s red. I don’t know what the hell he’s saying to her, but she’s blushing. Vince is like a dog with a bone. Once he sets his mind on something, the jaws of life can’t pry him away from his goal. On the ice, it’s a fantastic quality. In real life, it makes me want to choke him 90 percent of the time.

We meet in the locker room with Coach Anderson and the Assistant Coaches to go over last-minute plays and strategy. I hear the managers gathering supplies and heading out to the bus. The team pours onto the bus a few minutes later, gear in hand. Thomas and Clover sit together like usual, but Clara is by herself.

Vince runs onto the bus in front of me and plops down in the seat next to Clara. She smiles. It’s not just a polite smile—it’s beautiful and genuine. Panic shoots through me. No way in hell am I letting this happen. I’ve accepted my jealous streak, and I usually keep my anger in check thanks to hockey. For all Vince knows, Clara is nothing but an annoyance—though with a generally pleasant demeanor. The girl who shamelessly flirts to get a rise out of me. However, I mistakenly believed I’d staked my claim over her—no matter how unjustified, with the great jersey fiasco. Clara wears my jersey now. That means something. Not just to me, either. A girl wearing your jersey is a monumental statement—a branding. A sentencing. Until jersey reclaiming do we part.

So, I do what any unreasonable, love-sick man would do.

Chapter 18

Victory

I grab Vince’s phone out of his hand, fling it the back of the bus, and tell him, “Fetch boy.” He has a military grade case so I’m not terribly concerned it will break. If it does, I’ll give him another one. It’s only fair and, unlike Vince, I play by the rules—even if only by my own.

“Tory,” Clara scolds loudly. Her eyes go wide as saucers, and her mouth drops in shock.

“What the hell, Amato,” Vince yells, but he has a hint of a grin on his face, clearly thinking this is a prank.

I wait until Vince passes with his gear, sighing all the way, and slide in beside Clara. Vince chases down his phone and by the time he finds it under one of the seats I’m settled in quite nicely beside her. I smile up at him when he returns to re-claim his spot.

“Move, Amato,” he demands gruffly.

I beam and say matter-of-factly, “Make me.”

He rolls his eyes with a huff and smacks the back of my sweatshirt hood, pulled tight over my head. I always dress down for long bus rides if I can help it. Today I’m in navy fleece joggers and one of my dozen team hoodies. My mind drifts to how cute Clara would look in one of them. I’m lost in thought, wondering if I could find an excuse to give her one when I look over and see her glaring at me with crossed arms.

I beam wider. Really, my cheeks feel unnaturally tight due to the broadness of my grin. She’s so pretty when she’s mad. If I play my cards right, I might get her to grab my shirt and smack my helmet again.

“What’s the matter?” I ask, angelic.

She’s seething. “You can’t do that.”

“Do what?”

She pokes my shoulder, and I already feel myself simpering . “You know what. You can’t stop guys from talking to me.”

“I didn’t stop him from talking to you…he just would’ve had to do it from two rows away. You know what they say: if he wanted to, he would.”

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