Page 20 of On Thin Ice

It wasn’t that I was playing like shit. It was that I’d been playing scared.

Hockey was supposed to be instinctual—fast, reactive—but instead of trusting myself, I second-guessed every pass, every read. I had open lanes and didn’t take them, or I had clear shots and chickened out, thinking Oscar had a better angle.

And every time I hesitated, every time I gave the other team an extra second to close the gap, I could feel Ethan watching me.

No, not just watching—judging.

At one point, after I’d dumped the puck into the zone instead of driving to the net, he slammed his stick against the boards on his way back to the bench.

When I sat down, sucking in breath after breath like I was drowning, I risked a glance his way.

His expression was carved from stone, his eyes sharp enough to slice through me. He didn’t have to say a word; I got the message clear as day: “Grow some fucking confidence.”

I knew he was right. The worst part of it was that I’d never had this problem before. Confidence wasn’t just something I had, it was who I was. It was in the way I played, the way I carried myself, the way I could walk into any room and own it.

But lately, something was off. Like my instincts were wrapped in sludge, every decision bogged down before it could turn into action.

I’d tried telling myself I was just going through an adjustment period—had talked to my therapist about ways to break through—but nothing I tried worked.

Things were getting worse.

And if Ethan had picked up on that? If he thought I didn’t belong with the Aces?

That thought sat heavy in my chest, pressing down on my ribs like a weight I couldn’t shake.

Because I really, really wanted him to think I belonged.

I blew out a breath and dragged myself out of bed. If I stayed here, I’d just keep spiraling.

Coffee first. Then maybe I’d figure out how to unfuck my brain.

Scrubbing my hands over my face, I padded toward the kitchen. The house was quiet, which wasn’t unusual. Ethan had a habit of disappearing for hours on end, coming and going like a ghost. It was weirdly unsettling how little space he took up, considering this was his house and I was just crashing here.

Mug in hand, I stepped out onto the porch, breathing in the rich scent of coffee as I settled onto the top step. The concrete was warm, which I relished after freezing my balls off all night, and the air was thick with the promise of another scorching Texas day.

Across the street, a couple was walking their dog, a black and white spotted Great Dane I’d heard them call Methuselah. A few houses away, a guy was unloading a trunk full of groceries while his toddler waddled toward the house ahead of him. Two tweens, one with bright pink hair down to their waist, were riding their bikes down the street.

I let out a contented sigh before taking another sip of coffee. This was the first time I’d ever lived somewhere that felt like a real community. I liked it. Liked sitting out here in the mornings and watching people go about their day.

But if I was being honest? What Ireallyliked was watching Ethan interact with those same people.

Currently, he was carrying heavy bags of soil from the back of Marjorie’s Subaru to the raised beds in her front yard, his posture looser than I’d ever seen it. And he wasn’t just talking to her—he was laughing. A real, genuine laugh, not one of those dry exhales of air he sometimes let out when I got under his skin.

The sound of it sent an odd sort of warmth through my chest before that feeling curled low in my stomach.

I stared, captivated by this version of the man—the one who wasn’t all sharp edges and gruff monosyllables. The one who smiled without reservation as his hands moved to adjust the brim of Marjorie’s sun hat.

And then—shit. He caught me staring.

For a second, I thought he might scowl, might hit me with one of his patented Ethan Harrison glares, but instead, something shocking happened. He waved. Not a big, enthusiastic wave, just a slight lift of his fingers. A quiet acknowledgement.

I froze. My brain stalled out. Then—because I was absolutely unprepared for this moment—I slowly, awkwardly, lifted my mug in silent salute like a goddamned idiot who didn’t know how to behave in social situations.

The whole exchange lasted maybe three seconds, tops. Still, it lingered in my brain and sat heavy in my chest all morning and into the late afternoon. I didn’t know what had come over Ethan, but if he could offer me that tiny sliver of warmth, I figured I should offer something back.

He’d probably go back to freezing me out, but it was worth a shot at a peace offering. Or maybe it was a bribe. I honestly wasn’t sure.

I’d noticed over the past couple of weeks that he had a soft spot for old-school Italian comfort food. The fridge was mostly what you’d expect—grilled chicken breasts, kale salads in glass containers, protein shakes lined up like little soldiers—but nestled among them were the unmistakable signs of his one area of indulgence: foil-wrapped leftovers of baked ziti or spaghetti with meatballs the size of my fist.

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