Page 68 of Stick It
Kyle whirls, vibrating with rage, but Ethan doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. He just stares, unyielding. “Now.”
Kyle’s chest heaves. His fists clench. His face is bright red—whether from anger or humiliation, I don’t know.
Then slowly, jaw grinding, he draws in a deep breath. His eyes breathe fire, and murder radiates from his every pore, before he turns on his heel and storms toward the exit.
I exhale the breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
And when I glance back at Griffin, he’s already looking at me.
Watching. Waiting.
For what, I don’t know.
When Ethan catches our silent exchange, his brow furrows, and he leans in as I break eye contact. His voice is low as he all but demands, “What was that about?”
I take a sip of my drink, keeping my expression blank.
“No idea.”
Liar. Liar. Liar.
21
ETHAN
The airinside the rink is sharp with cold and rubber and that faint chemical sting of the Zamboni. The kind of familiar that settles in my bones.
I move through my warm-up like I always do—methodical, focused, efficient. Tight circles first, edge control sharp and clean, carving into the ice like I’m drawing lines around the chaos in my head. My shoulders stay loose, stick gripped light in my hands, eyes ahead, locked in.
Then crossovers, forward and backward, knees bent, stride compact. I count the beats in my head—four forward, pivot, four back. Again. Again. It’s not about speed. It’s about precision. Repetition. Getting every part of me firing the way it’s supposed to.
Pivots next—open hip, dig in, rotate, explode out. Then transitions. Tight feet, quick turns, shoulders squared. Balance steady, blade to blade, motion into stillness and back again.
Stops and starts. Accelerations. Sharp turns.
Everything drilled into me through years of routine and discipline.
It’s not purely about getting my body ready—it’s about switching on. Blocking everything else out.
Tuning in to the rhythm.
Control.
I’ve always needed it more than most.
I’m halfway through my routine when I hear it—soft at first, then sharper, brighter.
A laugh.
Hers.
It slices through the ambient noise of blades scraping and pucks hitting boards, straight into my bloodstream like a shot of adrenaline.
She flashes a grin at Jax as they stretch at the boards, her lips moving, forming the words of what I imagine is some cocky little comment or teasing dig at his expense. Jax volleys right back with something that has her throwing her head back.
Watching them together, the easygoing camaraderie, sets something off in my chest. She’s coming out of her shell.
Slowly. Cautiously. But it’s there.
