Page 104 of Icing Hearts

I relax for a moment until she says, “Nowlet. Me. Go.”

“Clara…”

“Don’t look at me. Don’t speak to me. We’re done. Pretend that I don’t exist.”

“Please, don’t.Please.”

“Now tell me. That you understand. Tell me you understand that I will forever see the cold, lifeless face of my mother every time I’m forced to look at you.”

“I…”

“Say it,” she says through gritted teeth.

“I understand.”

It’s fitting that I did this on the ice. That I ruined everything, including the sport I loved all in one night. Every time I skate onto the ice, for the rest of my life, I’ll think about what I did to her. When I see the ice, I’ll remember the way the light flickered out in her ocean eyes. And that I’m the one that caused it. Not my father or hers. Not her mother’s death.

Me.

No matter where hockey takes me, it’ll always be synonymous with loss. Clara shuffles off the ice and walks out of the rink. The door slams shut behind her.

After the echo subsides, I’m left in complete silence, save for the roaring in my mind and the sound of my own tears melting the ice. I rake a hand through my hair. I want to scream. I want her to scream at me. I want to hold her. I want to make it better.

But I can’t.

When I walk out to my car, she’s waiting, shivering. Spring is supposed to be well under way, but it’s nearly freezing tonight.

“You stayed,” I say cautiously.

“I needed a ride.”

I nod and open the door.

“Take me to Vince’s,” she says as I pull up to the exit. I flick on my left turn signal.

Vince lives in my neighborhood, just down the street from the rink. When I pull into his driveway, I utter her name. It comes out like a plea. For what, I don’t know.

“Clara,please.”

The slam of the car door—so hard the whole vehicle rocks—is her only response.

Chapter 64

Victory

My parties aren’t the same without Clara. Without our one dance that usually turned into more. With the hockey season over, there isn’t much else to do on the weekends until it gets warm enough to hang outside consistently. Tonight is no different.

Late in the evening, Vince sidles up next to me, two red cups in his hands. He gives me one, and I nod my appreciation.

“She won’t come here anymore,” he says, words lacking emotion.

“I figured.”

“She’s at my house watching rom-coms with my mom and sister.”

“Okay.”

“So what the hell did you do this time, Amato?” Vince takes a swig of his beer as he asks the question.

---