Page 115 of Shut Up and Jingle Me
The hallway outside Coach’s office feels cool on my heated skin once I leave. Not icy—just that kind of institutional chill of the hockey rink that smells like ice and stinky gear. My pulse is still a little off, echoing what he said.Whatever you do on your own time…
It shouldn’t mean anything. It shouldn’t change anything. But it does.
His words circle inside my head all the way through my shower and getting dressed.
By the time I make it to the parking lot, Daniel’s waiting, his hair still damp and a protein bar half-eaten in his hand. He falls into step beside me without saying anything right away. We’ve done this a hundred times—walked back to the dorms together after practice—but the silence feels different today.
“Rough seeing him this morning?” he finally asks.
I exhale through my nose. “Yeah.”
Daniel nods once, thoughtful. “When’s he supposed to transfer?”
“After the next game,” I say. “Coach made it official.”
He whistles low. “That soon?”
“Guess so.” I shove my hands into my jacket pockets. “Feels weird. Him still around, training Clark like nothing happened.”
Daniel chews the last bite of his protein bar, crumples the wrapper before shoving it in his pocket. “He’s still trying, though. You can tell.”
“Maybe.”
We pass a few students heading the other way, the breeze kicking up faint snow dust. My throat feels dry, but I keep walking.
“You gonna talk to him?” Daniel asks, quieter now.
“I don’t know.”
He side-eyes me. “You do. You just don’t want to admit it yet.”
I huff out a laugh that doesn’t quite sound like one. “You sound like Luke.”
“Yeah, but I’m nicer,” he says, bumping my shoulder. “If it’s still this hard just seeing him, maybe that means it’s not over. Not really.”
We reach the dorm steps, and I stop at the door. The sunlight hits the side of the building, melting a thin line of ice along the railing. I watch it drip.
“Go,” Daniel says, reading me too easily. “Whatever you’re thinking, go do it before you talk yourself out of it.”
I nod once. “Yeah.”
He heads inside, and I stand there a moment longer, trying to catch my breath. Then I turn back toward the rink.
I don’t know what I’ll say when I see Max. But I know I need to.
The rink’s mostly empty when I get back.
Just the low hum of the compressors and the faint scrape of someone sweeping up by the stands. The air is a different kind of cool inside than it is out in the winter breeze, filled with the smell of disinfectant and an underlying scent I can only connect to ice time.
I slow at the doorway that leads to the training hall. The overhead lights buzz faintly, one flickering near the far end. Max is there, alone, sleeves rolled up, sorting through tape rolls and other gear like he doesn’t have a deadline hanging over him. His focus is ridiculous—meticulous, deliberate, the same way he tapes the guys wrists before games.
For a second, I just watch. The quiet kind of watching that knots my stomach and loosens my shoulders all at once.
He looks up when he senses me in the doorway. For a second, neither of us speaks.
“Thought you’d be gone by now,” he says finally. His voice is low, even, but there’s a rasp to it—as though he’s bracing for something.
“Yeah,” I say. “I almost was.”
