Page 34 of ICED
I shake my head, grinning despite myself, and grab a second cloth. “If you’re going to loiter and gloat, you’re on drying duty. There’s a tray of tart tins that need stacking.”
He hops down without complaint, sleeves already shoved up, and grabs the tea towel hanging on the hook by the sink. “Yes, chef.”
We settle into the rhythm easily. Me washing, him drying, our shoulders bumping occasionally in that accidentally-on-purpose way. Jacko hums along to the music, badly and off-key, but it makes the space feel warmer somehow. Safer.
“So,” he says after a while, quieter now, “how’s today been? You holding up?”
The question is gentle. Not loaded, not nosy. Justthere.
I nod, scrubbing at a stubborn smear of caramel. “Better than yesterday. Worse than tomorrow, probably. You know. Life.”
He doesn’t push. Just says, “Yeah. I get that.”
And weirdly, I believe him.
We work in silence for a while longer, the kind thatdoesn’t feel heavy. Just companionable. His presence is big, calming, like standing next to a very friendly tree that smells faintly of sugar and shower gel.
When the clock hits three-thirty, I hear the soft chime of the childminder’s knock on the side door. Jacko immediately steps back, like he knows this moment isn’t his. Like herespectsthe line.
“I’ll head out,” he says, brushing crumbs from his hoodie. “Let you two have your chaos.”
“You don’t have to,” I start, then stop myself. Because I don’t know what I’m inviting. And I’m not sure I’m ready for it. Not yet.
He nods like he understands, like he always does. “I’ll see you soon, yeah?”
“Yeah,” I say, soft.
Then he’s gone, the bell above the front door jingling once more, and I’m left alone in the warmth, the quiet, and the echo of his smile still tugging at the corners of mine.
And maybe I let it linger.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
JACKO
The cold hits like an old friend.
Not the kind you laugh with. The kind who’s seen you bleed. Who’s stood beside you on the worst days and never said a word. The kind that doesn’t need to.
The chill of the rink sinks through my gear as I step onto the ice for warmup, shoulder rolling with that familiar weight. There’s still a pinch when I stretch too far, but it’s not sharp anymore, just a whisper of where I’ve been.
The boys are already circling. Murphy tosses me a grin as I join the drill, and Dylan gives me a stick tap as I skate past.
“Look who’s back from hisBake Offsabbatical,” Ollie shouts, wheeling around at centre.
I snort. “Keep chirping. You’ll be eating fondant and regret.”
Coach blows the whistle, and the warmup stretches into drills. Simple, familiar, easy. The kind of game night you dream of after weeks on the injured list. The other team, Bristol, are scattered and slow, jerseys hanging loose like they just pulled them on for the first time. No structure. No rhythm. Half their line changes look like a drunken conga line.
I love it.
Not because it’ll be an easy win, though it will be, butbecause it’s a clean way back in. No pressure. No one gunning for my shoulder like a target. Just hockey.
The anthem plays, and I close my eyes for a breath. Let the roar of the crowd roll over me. I’m not on the top line tonight, they’re easing me in, but when the puck drops, my legs remember.
God, I missed this.
The glide, the bite of my blades on the ice. The crash of a clean hit. The hollow thump of the puck off the boards. I didn’t realise how much my body was starving for it until I was back here, heart hammering in my throat, everything else stripped away.
