Page 2 of Breakaway Daddies

My thumbs move quickly over the keyboard.

>> Bro, I think I’ve lost my… mojo? Is there a point where puck bunnies just don’t cut it anymore?

The seconds feel like hours as I watch the tiny dots indicating Jack is typing. Finally, his reply pops up.

>> ??? What happened, did your back give out? Ha. Maybe you really are getting old.

A frustrated groan escapes my lips as I let my head fall back against the stack of pillows, the supple cotton cradling my frustration.

>> Not what I meant, dumbass. Just… I don’t know, it’s not fun anymore.

The phone vibrates again, and Jack’s reply is a series of emojis: a bald guy, a cane, and, inexplicably, a banana. I roll my eyes, tapping out my confusion.

>> What the hell does the banana mean?

>> That you’re a dick. Dude, maybe you just need a break from puck bunnies. Try dating a librarian or something.

A laugh snorts out of me, the idea of dating a librarian so far from my usual type it’s comical. But before I can type a response, another message from Jack lights up the screen.

>> Or just go skate it off. Always works for you.

I let out a long breath, eyes fixed on the glowing screen.

He’s got a point. The ice always clears my head.

I slide off the bed, feet hitting the carpeted floor with a dull thump, and gather my gear. The familiar weight of the bag brings a sense of purpose, and I stride out of the hotel room hoping the crisp air of the rink can chase away this unsettling feeling.

The air in the rink bites with a sharp chill, the kind that seeps into my lungs, each breath feeling like a fresh start. The arena is cloaked in darkness. Only a few emergency lights cast weak halos over the empty seats, their shadows stretching and dancing along the boards like ghostly spectators.

As I step onto the ice, the familiar rasp of my skates slicing into the frozen surface brings me back to the present moment, anchoring my thoughts. I glide in wide, lazy circles that allow my muscles to loosen and the stress of the day to melt away with every turn.

Gradually, I increase my pace, pushing off harder with each stride, my breath forming small, rhythmic clouds in the frosty air. Wind rushes past my cheeks, invigorating me and dispelling the lingering unease that had clung to me like a shadow.

Then something catches my attention—a subtle glow from one of the offices overlooking the rink.

It’s Jessica, or Jinx, as she likes to be called. The team’s physical therapist.

She’s perched at her desk, fingers dancing over her keyboard. Her hair is gathered into a messy bun, defying gravity at the top of her head, with a vibrant streak of blue standing out in the otherwise boring surroundings.

I slow down and come to a gentle stop near the boards, my eyes fixed on her through the glass.

Jinx is always burning the midnight oil. Always humming the same old song: “The Light in Your Eyes.”

That tune always reminds me of her now.

Rowan, our mutual friend, persistently tries to coax her into joining him for a night out, but she always dismisses his advances with a laugh, claiming she’s not interested in dating athletes.

I chuckle to myself.

Smart girl.

I push off the boards, my skates slicing through the ice with a satisfying crunch, but my thoughts have drifted far from the rink. My mind is tangled up with images of her, her deep, royal purple hair reflecting from her office.

Last week, it was blue; the week before that, a deep shade of teal.

I should probably just head back to the house, but the idea of talking to her hangs in the air like a tempting melody. How would I even begin?

“Hey Jinx,” I imagine saying, “I was skating alone in this quiet, lonely rink and just happened to notice you in your office. Totally not creepy at all, right?”

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