Page 18 of Broken Hearts
“Bye, E. Don’t die on me today.”
He makes a cross over his heart before he ends the call.
I stop in Coach’s office to let her know I’m here and then head out to the ice.
“You,” I say when I spot Rhett at one end stretching out.
“Hey,” he says tentatively.
I shake my head. “Seriously? Every time I think I have this place to myself.”
He stands tall and skates toward me. “I could say the same thing about you. Plus, I was here first this time.”
“Can’t a girl get a little peace and quiet?”
He smiles but doesn’t answer.
“I guess you can stay,” I say like I’m the boss of this place. He smirks. “Just… promise not to run me over.”
He grimaces. “You’d think that’d be an easy thing to promise, but I’ll just say I’ll do my best.”
“I forgot my headphones, so I’m going to play music over the speakers,” I say as I skate to the opposite side.
“Sure, yeah, whatever. Pretend I’m not here.”
Which is exactly what he does to me. He doesn’t spare another glance in my direction as he starts skating around his half. I put the music on and fall into my routine. I go through it twice—once without jumps and the second all out. When I finish, I grab a drink and check my heart rate before I forget about my routine and just skate for myself. The cool air hits my face as I move, whichever way the music takes me. Everything feels lighter here. My legs, my arms. It’s like flying as I move across the ice. Freedom.
My gaze falls to Rhett. He skates around the net, and our eyes meet for just a moment. He gives me his back again and continues shooting pucks into the net, and I do another half circle before I skate toward him.
“Can I try?” I motion toward his stick.
He straightens and pulls his bottom lip behind his teeth, watching me. “This feels like a trap. You’re not going to hit me with it again, are you?”
Rolling my eyes, I say, “No. It just looks sort of therapeutic the way you’re firing shots at the net.”
“I thought you wanted peace and quiet.”
“So did I.”
He hands over the stick. “Do you know what you’re doing?”
I line up with the stick behind the puck. “How hard could it be?”
I eat my words as I hit the puck, and it glides slowly along the ice stopping less than three feet in front of us.
“Harder than it looks, eh?” He grins. “Try again. Put your ass into it.” He squints, looks up. “I’m just realizing how that sounds when it’s not Coach saying it to a bunch of guys.”
“It sounds weird either way. I thought it was all in the wrist and shoulders.”
His brows raise and he cocks his head to the side.
“My little sister plays hockey,” I explain.
Nodding, he steps closer. His scent—a mixture of sweat and some masculine smelling soap wraps around me.
“Move your right hand down a little lower.”
My fingers inch down the stick. I look to him for approval.
