Page 106 of Shut Up and Jingle Me
He’s right. But standing here, watching how small he’s trying to make himself, I hate that I can’t.
I press my palms against the boards, fingers numb from the cold seeping through the glass. “You’ve been here long?”
He gives a half-shrug at my change of subject. “Since morning.”
“Trying to think?” I ask, though I already know.
“Trying not to,” he says.
I nod once. “Yeah. Me too.”
For a moment, we just stand there—the sound of the cooling system humming through the arena, the smell of ice thick in the air
When he finally looks up again, his eyes are red at the edges. “You think they’ll fire you and kick you out of school?”
“Maybe.” I shrug one shoulder. “Doesn’t matter. Not if it keeps you on the ice.”
He studies me for a beat that feels too long. “You’re still doing it,” he says quietly.
“Doing what?”
“Putting up your walls to keep everyone out.”
I don’t have an answer for that. Maybe because he’s right. Maybe because I’m scared of what happens if I stop.
The silence stretches again, thin and fragile. I take a step back, unsure if I’m doing it to give him space or to keep myself from stepping out onto the ice and reaching for him.
His hands flex at his sides, like he’s fighting the same impulse. “I should go,” he says finally.
“Yeah,” I manage. “Me too.”
He glides toward the exit on the far side of the rink, and I watch until the door to the locker room closes behind him.
Then I press my forehead against the glass, eyes stinging from more than just the cold. Because I don’t know if we can come back from this, and it’s breaking me.
FORTY
ELI
Coach’s officefeels smaller than I remember. Maybe because Max is sitting next to me. Maybe because the air feels too thick to breathe.
I sit on my hands so I don’t reach for him. If I don’t, I know I’ll fidget—or worse, I’ll reach for his sleeve just to remind myself he’s still here.
He hasn’t looked at me once since we walked in. Not directly, anyway. But I can feel him—like gravity, like static—close enough that the heat of him leaks through the space between us.
Every word from earlier keeps looping through my head. The rink. The silence. The things we didn’t say. It feels like if I blink, I’ll lose my grip on all of it.
Coach leans forward at his desk, hands clasped together, expression unreadable. “You both know why you’re here,” he says finally.
We nod. There’s nothing to argue.
“You also know the rule,” he continues, his tone even but firm. “Staff and players. No fraternization. It’s there for a reason—to protect the team, to protect both of you, to keep boundaries clear.”
The wordboundariesmakes my heart twist.
“This program has never had a problem with that rule before,” Coach says. “You two changed that.”
I swallow. My throat’s dry. “I’m sorry, Coach. It was my fault. I pushed. Max?—”
