Page 17 of Icing Hearts

As a result, I barely afford him a side-eye glance and dart straight to the locker room through a swinging door on the opposite wall. All the while, despite the temperature, his scorching gaze follows my every step.

The locker room is calmer than last time. It’s earlier in the day, when most adults are still at work, and a midweek game, so the crowd won’t be as big. There’s no party tonight, either.

Tabitha is frenzied, though. Tory’s assigned cheerleader walks around, frantically digging through the players’ supply lockers. She mutters and cusses and complains about how she isn’t going to have time to finish her sign at this rate.

“Has anyone seen Vic’s jersey?” she shouts across the locker room.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

She finally notices me, grabs my face and says, “Yes! Stalker girl! Perfect! Where is Vic’s jersey? I can’t find it anywhere. Did you steal it to use as a pillowcase or something?”

“What? No.” I laugh nervously because if I’d had the idea myself, she wouldn’t be too far off-base. “I’m not that crazy.”

We all help her search, but it doesn’t turn up, so she wears a blank one that Thomas digs out of the supply closet instead.

Thomas is one of those people who is easy to learn about. With enough silence, he starts talking and doesn’t really stop. Maybe it’s a social discomfort. Some people don’t like dead silence, but I don’t mind it. I have no problem filling my mind with all sorts of distractions.

We empty out the industrial dryer of new hockey merch that will be sold at the concession stand. The art club makes most of the designs and screen prints the t-shirts or sweatshirts. But we need to wash, fold and restock shelves. Thomas is pretty good at using the blue shirt folding device and tells me about how he lost his leg after he teaches me proper technique. To be fair, I didn’t ask him about it. Personally, I feel that Thomas is more than his accident and while it was a defining moment in his life, it doesn’t have to define him as a person unless he wants it to.

“So, you’re still able to skate?” I ask.

“Not in the traditional sense. To do that, I’d have to get a custom prosthetic made ’cause they aren’t really standard. I read about a former pro player who did it, but I use a sledge like the Paralympic athletes use. I want to go out for a squad, but my mom is crazy over-protective after my accident.”

“You definitely should. I feel like the more you push her, the more comfortable she’ll get with it. Though I’m sure it’s still scary for her.”

“She treats me like a glass boy. It’s annoying, but I get where she’s coming from.” He gives me a look and says, “Moms.”

I smile just enough to be polite, though it must present more like a wince because Thomas’s eyes go wide. It’s a look I’ve had the displeasure of witnessing dozens of times. He’s just remembered that he complained about his mom to the girl with the dead mom. Girl with the dead mom. I’ve worked so hard to not be that girl—to shuck that label.

I’m not that girl.

I’m the girl who gets good grades.

I’m the girl who wears pink and bows.

Most of all, I’m the girl who shamelessly flirts with the most intimidating boy in school. The most talented boy. The most beautiful boy.

These are the labels that define me because these are the labels I’ve chosen to define me. Would I rather be the Peace Corps girl or the girl who discovered a star? Sure. But those labels are harder. These are the ones I can manage and navigate.

Sadly, I’m still the vindictive police chief’s daughter. While it’s a secondary label, not as dominant as the ones I’ve chosen, it still lurks in the background. And I can’t wait to run from it—to never look back. Earning a full-ride to college with an academic scholarship—that’s the goal. Or at least enough to get me started. I’m more than capable of finding work once I start school.

It’s so very odd that such immense shame comes from both of my parents for such vastly different reasons. Thomas is blessed to have a living mom. Even if she’s over-protective.

So I give him a true smile, taking the t-shirt he’s folded with military precision and adding it to the pile labeled L for large. “My mom would be impressed by your folding abilities.”

“We don’t have to talk about it,” he sputters through crimson cheeks. If only they blushed because he was trying to mask a crush, or because it was too hot. But they aren’t. They’re red because my mom is dead, and he keeps saying the wrong thing. He’s only saying we don’t have to talk about her because he’s uncomfortable doing so. I wish someone—anyone—would hold space for me to talk about her. Maybe someday.

Guilt niggles the back of my mind when the tears don’t prick the corners of my eyes.

Later, when I’m walking to the office to help Clover compile last year’s stats for the local sports columnists, I decide to check my mailbox for my first paycheck. It’s there, but I don’t see it right away.

Because, stuffed into the four-inch slot, is a hockey jersey. I unfurl the garment and see the name AMATO printed across the top, along with the number twenty-four.

Tory’s jersey.

Chapter 12

Clara

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