Page 16 of ICED
“I’m a gentle giant,” I say, unwrapping my brace. “Besides, half those were because you lot can’t keep your heads up.”
“That’s not fair,” Ollie protests. “One time, Dylan skated backwards into a ref.”
“That ref was a twat,” Dylan argues from behind his water bottle.
I sit on the bench and let the noise of it wash over me. It’s dumb and loud and juvenile but it’s home.
And for a minute, it almost makes up for the fact that I still can’t take a proper slapshot.
“Right,” Murphy says, standing. “We’re grabbing shakes. You coming?”
I think about it. Normally, I’d go. Let Ollie flirt with the cashier, listen to Dylan defend pineapple on pizza, laugh at Murphy getting recognised and trying to act humble about it.
But today, I think about a little girl with gap teeth who called me “Mr Bear” and offered me a sticker for helping her ice fairy cakes. I think about her quiet, fierce, guarded mum. The way she watches the world like it’s something that could turn on her without warning.
“Nah,” I say. “I’ve got a thing.”
They pause, eyeing me.
“A thing?” Ollie asks. “Like a date? A secret cat? A baking emergency?”
I grin. “Let’s call it a flour-related obligation.”
Murphy whistles. “It’s a girl.”
“It’s not,” I start, then stop. “It’s complicated.”
Ollie’s eyebrows are in his hairline. “You’re baking for a woman.”
“More like with her.”
“And this woman,” Dylan says, slow and deliberate, “is not a granny, or a celebrity chef?”
“Nope.”
“Then it’s official,” Murphy announces. “Jacko’s got a crush.”
“Fuck off,” I say, grabbing my kit. “You lot are worse than the press.”
But as I leave the locker room, their teasing fades into the background. Because truth is, they’re not wrong. I do have a crush.
But it’s not just that. It’s the way Maya looked at me like she didn’t expect kindness and wasn’t sure what to do with it. The way she stood between her kid and the world, even when she was clearly tired and scared.
It’s the way being around them feels like something I don’t quite have words for yet.
I step outside, the cold air biting at my neck. My shoulder still aches, but it’s a good kind of ache.
Progress.
And maybe something else. Something worth showing up for.
Still, as I sit behind the wheel and let the engine warm up, I don’t start driving right away.
The usual post-practice buzz fizzles out, replaced by that quiet weight I’ve learned to carry. The kind that settles deep behind the ribs, somewhere unspeakable. I spent so long building myself into someone no one messed with. Big lad, takes hits, gives worse. Safe to stand next to in a scrap. Dangerous if you’re on the wrong side of it.
But lately it’s different.
Lila’s tiny fingers sticky with icing sugar. Maya’s soft, measured voice calling “Lila, love” like it’s the only thing she’s sure of. The way her whole body tenses when someone gets too close. The way she relaxes, just slightly, when I’m the one nearby.
