Page 43 of Jaded

Soft. Green. So soft. Why does that softness brighten something inside me, a nightlight fraying the edges of dark. So fragile, so breakable, but there, inside me. Brightness.

“Yeah, let’s never talk about it again,” I say, forcing my mouth into a tight smile. “Like, maybe you could forget any of this happened?”

“Not likely,” he says, but those severe lines of his visage relax into something that might almost be a smile.

I clamp down on my own smile. “Well, do me a favor and pretend like you forgot.”

“If you insist.” His eyes drop to the phone in my hand. “What’re you listening to?”

He’s returned to his signature almost-scowl. Doesn’t make him look any less beautiful. In fact, the surly look works for him—the low arch of his brows, the tautness of his mouth and jaw.

Or maybe it’s just that he’s so beautiful nothing could dim my attraction. The way I notice the warmth of him, his soft cologne, and beneath that, the faded burn of cigarettes.

“Not emo, rock star.” The words tumble out of my mouth and my lips arch into a teasing grin. But damn, does he even remember that comment?

I opt not to give either of us time to overthink it.

I hit play on my phone, and the notes of In Flames’s “Cloud Connected” start cracking through the speakers, low and tinny. Nat’s brows lift from their tight pull into an arch of incredulity.

“You look surprised,” I say. “But we talked about this.”

The blare of the buzzer announces the first goal, and we both jerk towards the ice.

“Dang.” We’re already losing.

Dread fills my gut as the stakes hit me. I’ve hitched my cart to a horse with no legs, thinking maybe I could what, magic them back into existence?

Stop overthinking, Olls.

I really need a distraction. And what do you know? There’s one sitting right beside me. Staring down at the ice, jaw flexing with tension. Like he’s got something personally riding on this game too.

Kinda makes me wonder why he’s not out there.

Olli, you gotta quit it, bud.

Instead, I dig deeper. “I recall something about a guitar . . . You play metal too?”

“Yes.” His words sound clipped, and it can’t be the game, can it? Is it me? My anxiety obviously wants to name it as such, ’cause I’m probably annoying him with all my talking when he’s clearly just trying to watch the game—

A whistle down below cuts through my thoughts.

“Fuck!” Nat mutters, and we both stare as Everton’s tossed into the penalty box, leaving us down a man. Fantastic. Nat’s hands clench into tight fists.

“So, um.” I steal a glance at his profile. “Why’s there nobody at this game?”

“The team’s losing?” His hands loosen atop his knees. “Nobody cares about a bunch of California boys? It’s cold? Take your pick.”

“Cold?” I scoff, and then wince as another whistle stops the game for an icing call. On us—’cause we’re already tired. “Seven Nation Army” by the White Stripes blares out of the arena’s speakers. “Isn’t this supposed to be a hockey town? This isn’t cold.”

“Just wait until winter, Florida.” His jaw flicks with tension again as the play starts up—and stays firmly in our defensive zone. “You don’t even know what cold is. You’re gonna hate this town before Christmas.”

I almost laugh, except how could I laugh when the combination of good goaltending and bad shooting is the only thing keeping this from being a blowout game? “Maybe I hated Florida.”

“Did you?”

“It’s hot there. And humid.” Thank God, someone finally ices the puck, securing us a brief respite in the form of a commercial break and a line change. “Plus, I love seasons.”

Nat’s gaze finally leaves the ice, returns to my face. “You haven’t lived through a Day River winter. I promise you, it won’t be fun.”

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