Page 308 of Iced Up Love: Part Two
Heat floods through me instantly, my breath catching as I instinctively lean forward just slightly, drawn to him without thinking.
Elijah’s hand tightens on my thigh. Not in restraint, in awareness.
Zach follows not long after, his presence calmer, steadier, but no less intentional.
His gaze finds me, holds for a moment, and he gives a small lift of his stick in acknowledgment.
Quieter, but just as meaningful.
I settle back slowly, my pulse still elevated, my body still buzzing, but something inside me feels different now.
Not like I’m being dragged into this. Not like I’m surviving it. Like I’m standing in it. Choosing it.
And as I sit there, Elijah’s hand steady on me, Lucian watching from the edges, Evelyn somewhere in the room, and the two men I love moving across the ice in front of me, I realize something I didn’t expect.
I’m not afraid the way I used to be.
I’m aware.
I’m exposed.
But I’m not hiding.
sixty-seven
Zach
The ice feels different now I know it’s almost over. It’s sharper somehow. Colder.
Every sound cuts cleaner, the scrape of blades, the crack of sticks, the echo of the puck hitting the boards, like my body is trying to memorize it all before I walk away from it for good.
I settle into the crease, shifting my weight slightly as I track the movement in front of me, my glove hand flexing once, twice. The familiar rhythm sits in my bones, automatic after all these years, but there’s a distance to it now.
Not detachment.
Clarity.
I’m not playing for a future anymore. I’m playing because I can. Because I want to finish this properly.
The puck drops, and the game surges into motion.
Fast.
Aggressive.
Both teams pushing harder than they need to, because even when the standings don’t matter anymore, pride still does. Especially for the younger guys. This is their shot to prove something, to coaches, to management, to themselves.
I track the first rush cleanly, dropping low as the winger cuts in, reading the angle before he even takes the shot. The puck snaps toward the net...blocked.
Rebound kicks out.
Cleared.
“Nice one, old man,” someone mutters as they skate past.
I huff a quiet breath, resetting my stance.
Old man. Yeah. That tracks.
