Page 40 of ICED
No new messages.
I must’ve checked it seven times already. Not that I’m counting. Just, you know, making sure I didn’t miss something in all the noise of the arena.
Murphy clocks me glancing down at my screen again and smirks from across the bench. “She’s not gonna text faster if you burn a hole through it, big man.”
I roll my eyes. “Did I say anything?”
“You didn’t have to,” Dylan pipes up from where he’s taping his stick. “You’re practically vibrating. It’s like watching a golden retriever try to wait for dinner.”
“Leave him,” Ollie says, grinning. “He’s finally got a crush that isn’t Mary Berry.”
“Blasphemy,” I mutter, but my mouth quirks despite myself.
Dylan points his blade at me. “You made her a personalised biscuit box, Jacko. That’s not a crush. That’s a declaration of war.”
“Yeah,” Ollie adds. “If this wasBake Off, she’d be Star Baker and you’d be down on one knee in the Showstopper tent.”
“You lot are insufferable,” I grumble, but the truth is, I wouldn’t swap them for anyone.
The banter helps settle my nerves. Almost distracts me.
Almost.
Because the second Coach steps in and starts the pregame talk, I feel my phone buzz in my palm.
I look down.
MAYA: Thank you for the seats and the family and friends pass. We’re right on the front row next to the plexiglass. Lila says she’s going to wave every time she sees your bum.
My chest loosens in a way it hasn’t all day.
She came.
They came.
And they’re right on the glass. Which means I’ll see them. During warmup. During face-offs. Every time I skate past, they’ll be there.
Ollie glances over as the guys start heading out for warmup. “You look like someone just handed you a cinnamon roll and called you pretty.”
I grin. “Better.”
The moment my skates hit the ice, everything sharpens. The lights. The sound. The cold bite of the air as I pick up speed. And then I see them.
There.
Front row, just like she said. Maya’s in that soft greenjumper she wore the day I helped clean the bakery, her hair tied up and her eyes tracking me like she can feel every turn I make.
Lila’s next to her, practically bouncing in her little coat, palms pressed to the glass.
I skate over during a lull in the drill, slow and easy, and tap my glove against the plexi right in front of them.
Lila squeals. Maya smiles.
I dig into my glove and pull out the puck I tucked in there earlier. Hold it up with a raised brow.
Lila nods frantically. I lob it gently over the top of the glass, right into Maya’s hands.
She catches it one-handed, graceful as anything, and mouths something through the plexi before she hands it to a very excited Lila.
