Page 25 of Icing the Cougar
He leans back and looks at me, really looks, and something changes in his face. The old bravado is gone, replaced by a quiet confidence that’s softer, but stronger.
"So, what do we do now?" There’s no smirk, no challenge. Just a genuine question, as if he trusts me to have an answer.
I swallow with my pulse pounding in my neck. "We could run it back," I say, nodding at the silks. "Or we could sit here and just… be for a minute."
He laughs, the first real one of the day. "Sitting sounds good. My arms are fucking dead."
I curl against the arm of the couch and let the silence fill up, comfortable for once. Jasper leans his head back and closes his eyes. I watch the way his chest rises and falls, the way his hands relax in his lap. He’s at ease, maybe for the first time since I met him.
I don’t want to ruin it, but I want to know more. Everything. I want to ask about the Canadians, about juvie, about what scares him and what makes him want to fight so hard he nearly self-destructs.
Instead, I say, "When you have your next home game, I could come watch."
He cracks one eye open. "You really want to see that?"
"I do," I say.
He grins. "Deal. But only if you teach me how to climb higher."
"Deal," I respond.
Chapter 13
Jasper
I’ve always loved the smell of an ice rink at game time: blood, sweat, cleaner, and some faint ghost of popcorn from the concessions. Tonight, it hits different, though. The building is shaking with sound—fans stomping, the DJ working overtime, every glass in the place rattling like a warning. I skate out for warmups and spot Trinity in the stands before I do my first lap. She’s up in the second row, wearing my jersey, face buried in her hands like she’s praying I don’t do something stupid. Sorry, babe. Odds are not in your favor.
This is the biggest home game of the year. The Edge is packed. Every ticket sold out, every seat a little patch of red, white, and blue. Riley is already on the ice, talking shit to the other team’s captain in that smiley, kill-you-with-kindness way he has. I keep my head down and start my stretch, trying to drown out thechatter in my own head. Tonight, I need to prove something. To Riley. To the coach. To the world. To her.
Then I see him. Number 89, weaving tight circles, all hunched up like he’s carrying a grudge on his back. Even from fifty feet, I know he’s staring at me. They called him "Badger" back in college, because he never let go of anything—not the puck, not a grudge, not the chance to make your life hell. I haven’t played him since then, and I hoped it would stay that way.
He sidles up next to me at the blue line, close enough that I can smell his off-brand hair product and whatever cheap cologne he’s slathered over it. “Wright,” he says, voice low, “still faking like you belong here?”
“Didn’t know they let you back in the league after that suspension,” I say, not looking at him.
He laughs. “Gotta hand it to you. You’re like a cockroach. Never die, never learn.” Then, softer, “Bet the chick in your jersey doesn’t even know what you did to get here.”
The ref skates over, signaling for teams to clear. Badger blows me a kiss, then skates away backwards, never losing eye contact. I’m pissed, but also on edge in a way I haven’t been since my first college game. The thing is, he knows. He always knows.
First period, opening faceoff. I take my spot on defense. Riley gives me a look from across the circle, a quick, you good? flick of the eyebrows. I nod, jaw tight. The puck drops. Game on.
Everything is speed and noise. I lose myself in it, like I always do, moving on instinct, trusting my body to remember how to do this when my brain wants to run. We score first, crowd goes wild, Riley does his little point-at-the-glass celebration, which is annoying but effective. I check the bench and see Coach grinning. He’s watching me, waiting for me to make a mistake, but for now, I’m perfect.
Second period, a tie game. Badger is everywhere. He’s chippy, slashing my wrists, slamming me into the boards, yapping in my ear every second he gets. At first, I let it slide off. Hockey’s ninety percent trash talk. But he doesn’t let up.
“Remember that time in Duluth?” he says during a faceoff. “You ever tell your girl about juvie? You ever tell her what you did to that poor fucker in the showers?”
My head snaps up. He smiles.
“Didn’t think so.”
I want to rip his helmet off and slam his teeth into the ice, but I can’t. Not with the ref right there, not with Trinity watching, not with everything I’ve worked for on the line. Instead, I shove him hard off the draw and skate away, pretending I don’t hear him.
It gets worse. Every stoppage, every time we’re on the ice together, he’s right there, in my head, whispering poison.
“Your whole team would love to know, you know. The real you. The fuck-up from Moose Lake. The nobody who should’vewashed out years ago.” Slash across my ankle. “She’d love to know, too. I should go say hi after the game.”
He’s getting to me. I’m playing sloppy now, missing assignments, over skating, biting on every fake. Coach benches me for five minutes, and I stew, watching Badger take cheap shots at our forwards. He’s not even good, just dirty, but the refs are letting him play.
