Page 39 of Icebound Hearts

“So,” she says, flipping down the sun visor and checking her reflection, “are we going to talk about it?” I tense, refusing to look at her.

“Talk about what?” She shoots me a look. “Come on, Aiden. Last night.” I grip the steering wheel a little tighter.

“What about it?” Kat lets out a sigh and turns to face me fully. “Look, I just… I wanted to say thanks. You didn’t have to stay with me, but you did. And you didn’t make it weird. So. Yeah. Thanks.”

For once in my life, my brain short-circuited. I am so used to our conversations being battles, volleys of sarcasm and wit, that hearing her say something real—something soft—makes me forget how to respond.

“You don’t have to thank me,” I say finally, keeping my eyes on the road. “I wanted to.” The second the words leave my mouth, I regret them. They feel too honest, too raw, like I’d accidentally left a window open and let something vulnerable slip through.

Kat is quiet for a moment. “Well,” she says at last, “if it makes you feel better, I still think you’re a pain in the ass.” Relief washes over me, and I let out a breath I hadn’t realised I was holding. “Good. I’d be worried if you didn’t.”

She smirked, and just like that, we were back to normal. Or at least, as normal as we could be with this new thing buzzing between us—this awareness that hadn’t been there before. I don’t know what it means. I don’t know what to do with it. But as we pulled into the store parking lot, and Kat shot me one last playful glare before hopping out of the car, I knew one thing for sure.

I like her.

And that is a problem.

Chapter Eighteen

KATERINA

It’s been five days since Aiden and I went on our little store trip, and things have been somewhat normal. We are still bickering, but I’ve been spending more time with my friends. Tonight, the boys have a game, and we are all going. My mom is still in town, so she decided to stop by for the game. The energy in the arena is electric. The air crackles with excitement, the crowd's roar vibrating through the walls as fans chant and stomp their feet. It’s the biggest game of the season—Pleasant Oaks versus Westbridge University.

The rivalry is brutal. The tension is thick, and I am not okay.

I tug at the oversized jersey swallowing me whole, shifting uncomfortably as I try to ignore the way his name and number are plastered across my back.

Aiden Knight. 10. I’d fought it. Hard.

“It’s a new tradition,” Alina had said, twirling in Roman’s jersey like she was thriving in this. “We will be wearing their numbers. Maddie’s in Will’s, I’m in Roman’s, and even Alexei is wearing Grayson’s.” Sure enough, Alexei had smirked and thrown an arm around Grayson, who looked way too smug about the whole thing. I had tried everything to get out of it. But Alina smirked, held up Aiden’s jersey, and said, “Wear it, or I will tell him you begged to have his number.”

So here I am, in the stands, drowning in Knight’s name while he storms onto the ice like he owns it. My mom laughed when she saw me. When I told her I was forced into wearing it, she simply said, “The Kat, I know, wouldn’t do anything she didn’t want to do.” To which I had nothing to say back. She knowsme better than anyone else. The crowd erupts, chanting Aiden’s name as the team skates out.

Alina nudges me. “You look way too tense for someone who’s supposed to be having fun.”

I glare at her. “I hate that I got stuck with his number.” She smirks, shaking her head at me and says, “You love it.” I refuse to dignify that comment with a response because deep down, I know Ali is right.

Westbridge plays dirty. From the first drop of the puck, it’s clear they aren’t here to win clean. They slash at sticks, shove harder than necessary, and go for cheap hits when they think the refs aren’t looking. It’s dangerous, messy, and Aiden is thriving in it. He moves with complete confidence like every shift is his personal battleground. He’s aggressive, relentless, and entirely in control—but it doesn’t stop me from tensing every time he throws himself into a collision. Every time his body slams into the boards, I feel it in my chest.

By the second period, Pleasant Oaks is up by two goals. The crowd is losing it, the energy in the arena reaching a fever pitch. But I can’t stop watching him.

A Westbridge player—number 27—skates up behind Aiden

after the whistle and slams him into the boards. It's a cheap, dirty shot. Aiden’s body whips forward, his head snapping dangerously close to the glass. My stomach drops. But Aiden doesn’t hesitate. His gloves hit the ice.

“Oh, shit,” Alexei mutters. “Here we go.” Before the refs can react, Aiden is on him. Fists fly. The entire arena erupts, the crowd screaming as chaos explodes on the ice. Aiden lands a solid right hook to number 27’s face. Then another. The refs scramble to break them apart, but Aiden isn’t letting go. I jump to my feet, my pulse racing. You absolute idiot.

When they finally drag Aiden off, he skates to the penalty box, blood dripping from his lip, chest heaving. And all I can dois clench my fists and breathe through the frustration. Pleasant Oaks wins, but I can’t bring myself to celebrate appropriately. Because now I have to deal with him.

We wait outside the locker room, the air still buzzing with post-game adrenaline. Alina and Maddie chat excitedly, but I stand there, arms crossed, foot tapping. The second Aiden emerges, hair damp, a fresh bruise blooming on his cheekbone, he spots me immediately. And, of course, he smirks.

“You looked good in my jersey, Angel Face.” I glare at Aiden, angry that he just fought someone and now is openly flirting with me.

“You looked stupid getting into that fight.” His smirk deepens.

“Oh, so you were watching.” I step closer, jaw tight.

“What the hell were you thinking? You could’ve gotten hurt. You could’ve gotten suspended.” The amusement flickers, but he holds my gaze. “He took a cheap shot.”

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