Page 40 of Jaded

For some reason, that just makes my bones feel heavy. “I’m gonna go now, okay? But you call me tomorrow?”

“Of course I will.” She won’t.

I might, if the dark little cat scratching in the corner of my soul flexes its claws too deep. Maybe it won’t come to that. Or maybe those claws will cut too deep for even Mom to fix. “Love you, Mom.”

“Love you, Aspen.”

The words trail after me long after I hang up.Love you, Aspen.

There are so many aspens here, I think, and I wish I’d told her that. So many things I wish I could say—to her, to others.I should love this place, Mom, I want to say. I should be the version of myself that would love this place, its aspens, its trails and trees. The version of myself thatsheloves, that she sees and still thinks I am in spite of everything.

I wish I could still be your innocent little Aspen.

She’s right, though. I shouldn’t be here, alone, in my house. I’m twenty-nine, single, cute, financially stable . . . I should be out flashing my grin, making new friends, finding a hiking group, or texting my teammates to see what they’re up to.

But that’s never been my style. I’ve always been a loner. Ready with a quick, easy smile, casual jokes, a laugh. But it’s like there’s nothing to back it up inside—I’m empty, hollow, blank.

Like a jack-o’-lantern scooped clean to better showcase its smile.

Chapter 12

Olli

Thegameisn’tforanother few hours, and like I told Mom, I’mnotdressing for this one—some BS business with the transfer. But I still get there early enough to lurk around the rink like some kind of bored, lonely ghost.

I mean, what else am I gonna do?

The rink’s empty when I arrive, or so I think until I pace down the long padded hallway towards the locker room. Drinking in the cold air, so stiff and stale compared to the crisp and clean of my morning hike. Familiar, though. Welcome. So welcome.

I’m just opening the door when the telltale scrape of blades on ice tells me someone’s out there.

I forget the locker room and head to the arena instead. Stand just out of view beneath the bleachers—trying to stay invisible, ’cause I’m kinda identifiable. How many Black hockey players live here in Icetown, ya know?

Like a specter shrouded in shadow, I observe. There’s one guy out there, skating slow circles around the long stretch of shimmering white.

Clad in sweatpants, gloves, a helmet devoid of shield or cage, he shifts across the ice in long, lazy strides steeped in grace. Ease. Natural skill.

Takes me half a second to realize I recognize him—

Nat Taylor.

Well, guess that solidifies my theory about him being related to Jesse Taylor, the legend who led this team to success. Is that why there’s something familiar about the way he skates, flows through each motion?

I’ve studied Jesse enough, I might recognize his style of play. But . . . No.

No, it’s something else, something more familiar than that. Something—

Crap.

With a sudden, shocking surety—forgive my alliteration—I know.

Nat plays, but obviously not for the Dingoes. No, he plays somewhere very, very different, doesn’t he?

Somewhere darker . . .

I realize I’m still hovering, breathless, by the door. Watching. ’Cause in addition to learning this dark little secret, there’s still the whole bit where I definitely kissed him at a bar, then told him it was a mistake . . .

I’m spiraling. I’m definitely, really spiraling.

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