Page 30 of Icing the Cougar
He is silent for a long, long time. I watch his eyes, the way he chews on the inside of his cheek, the way his hands flex and unfurl in his lap.
“At least you’re not past your prime in the ways that matter,” he finally says, and it’s sweet, but I can see the gears turning in his head. “I don’t care about that shit. I mean, yeah, it’d be cool to have a mini-me someday. However, I didn’t have any of that growing up and I still turned out… okay.” He chuckles. “I never thought I would get this far. And you—” he cups my face between his hands, so gentle it makes my eyes sting, “—you’re literally the only thing I want right now.”
I start to protest, but he shakes his head. “Trinity, I don’t care if you’re forty or fifty or a hundred and ten. You’re the only person who’s ever made me feel like I could be something better than what I am.”
“You’re not going to say that in five years when you’re picking me up from my colonoscopy,” I say, but my voice cracks with relief.
He grins, the wide, wolfish one I’m falling for. “Will too. I’ll even drive you home after your hip replacement.”
Chapter 15
Jasper
Practice is at seven in the morning. The rink’s lights are bright and already giving me a headache. My mind’s not here, but my body is, and that’s enough for Coach G. He just wants asses in gear and skates on the ice, no matter how wrecked your head is.
I’m half-dressed in the team locker room, trying to lace my skates tight enough to pinch off the feeling in my legs. Riley’s already chirping guys from three stalls over, barking about line changes and “rookie hands” like he isn’t the one that whiffed an open net last game. Alfie’s at his locker taping a fresh stick, not talking, but you can tell he’s listening to every word. It’s a full room, and everyone’s loose except me. My hands shake when I feed the last lace, but I tell myself it’s caffeine. Lie to yourself enough, you almost believe it.
As soon as we hit the ice, the noise swells. Practice isn’t supposed to be loud, but this team can’t help it. Blades grind and scream over the cuts in the old sheet, sticks clack against the glass, and guys shout every pass and drill. It used to be a rush. Now, it just jars something in my skull. Every mistake clangs around in there and echoes around with all the other shit I can’t shake loose.
We start with suicides—up and back, up and back—until your lungs burn. I’m gassed after the first two, legs already lead, vision tunneling. The next drill is a dump-and-chase, which I’m supposed to run point on, but my head’s somewhere else and I miss Riley’s pass by a good three feet. The puck slaps my shinpad and skitters off to Alfie, who wings it down the boards without a word. I hustle after it, too late, and clip Alfie’s skate as I try to cut him off. We both stumble, and I hit the boards with my shoulder.
“Jesus, Wright. You wanna stay on your feet for more than a shift?” Coach Gallagher bellows. He’s standing behind the glass, arms crossed, whistle clenched in his teeth. He’s pissed, but he’s always pissed, so it barely registers.
“Yeah, sorry, Coach.” I barely manage the words. My jaw is tight, and I suck air through my teeth and jump back into the line.
After thirty more minutes of drills, I’m soaked, out of it, and at least twice I catch myself checking the glass where Trinity usually sits. Empty, obviously since it’s not a game.
We run three-on-two’s, and I’m on a line with Riley and a kid they just called up from the farm. I keep missing myassignments, skating the wrong angle, letting the puck slip through the triangle. Riley’s had enough.
“Hey, Jazz,” he says, skating up alongside me during a water break. “You hung over, or just got your balls in a vice?”
“Neither,” I gulp from the bottle and refuse to meet his eye.
He shrugs, but there’s a glint. “Look, I get it. Maybe you need a night off. Or a week.” He smirks. “Or maybe a babysitter?”
I shoulder past him and dump the water bottle. The bench is slick with melt and dirt, and it takes effort not to slip on my ass. Coach blows the whistle and corrals us to the far end of the ice for a lecture.
“You’re all skating like shit,” Coach says, glaring up and down the line. “I want two more rounds of cycle drills, then full-contact scrimmage. If I don’t see some fucking effort, you can spend the rest of the week doing wall-sits in the broom closet with Alfie for company.”
Alfie, who has not said a word all morning, winks at the team and deadpans, “I’m a very strict roommate.”
Guys laugh, but it’s nervous. Nobody wants to be in Coach’s doghouse, least of all me. Although, the harder I try, the worse it gets. My legs are rubber, my hands clumsy, and every time someone puts a shoulder into me, I flash on last week’s brawl and the taste of blood. Even the rookie notices—he checks mehard enough to knock the wind out, then skates past with a “Sorry, bro” that I almost believe.
After the last drill, Coach blows the whistle and waves me over. “Wright. My office. Now.”
I yank my helmet off, sweat dripping into my eyes, and skate over. Coach stands just inside the door, looking like he might chew a chunk out of the wood paneling if it would help his mood.
He waits until everyone else is gone, then says, “You wanna tell me what’s going on, or should I guess?”
“Nothing,” I say, barely above a whisper.
He tilts his head. “Nothing? You’re skating like a guy who just lost his dog and his grandma in the same week.”
I force a laugh. “Maybe I just need more sleep, Coach.”
He doesn’t buy it for a second. “Look. Whatever it is, fix it. You’re too good to let your head fuck up your game. If you need to talk to someone, do it. If you need to smash a wall, I’ll loan you a sledgehammer. Just don’t bring that shit to my ice.”
I nod, eyes locked on a scuff in the floor. “Yes, sir.”
