Page 15 of Shattered On Ice

I scramble to put distance between us, dropping my hands from his shirt as if the fabric is burning me. I have to put up a wall before he can tear me down to save himself.

“So, I guess we’re friends?” I offer reluctantly, my voice shaking as much as my hands.

His eyes darken, a muscle working in his jaw as I watch his face. He’s as shaken by this explosive chemistry as I am, and I don't think my suggestion will cut it.

“Friends? No.” He laughs hollowly. “Friends don’t dry hump in a club hallway and come in their fucking pants because it feels so damn good to touch each other.” He blows out an embarrassed breath. “I don't fantasize about every dirty thing I want to do to my friends. I don't think about every possible way I could convince a friend to let me fuck them in the bathroom, which is far too dirty and not nearly what you deserve. So, no. We’re not friends, Knight. We’re something far worse.”

Five

Westin

“Westin!”

I throw open my arms to catch my mother in a hug as soon as I get inside the house. She feels smaller somehow. She used to be the rock that kept everyone sane in a house that never quite felt like home.

“Hi, Mom,” I say, kissing her curly hair before I look around at the familiar yet different space.

“You must be starving after all that travel. Take your bag upstairs, and I’ll make you something to eat. I know my boy is always hungry,” she says, patting my shoulder.

“Do you want me in my old room, or the guest room?” I ask.

Mom waves her hand and makes a face. “Your room, of course! We leave it just like it used to be, so you’ll always have something familiar to come home to.” She smiles, familial love radiating from her that I’ve missed but struggle to connect with. She was always my father’s biggest fan and supporter first, no matter how much she believed in me.

I look up toward the bedrooms. So she wants me to stay in a full-size bed that my feet hang off of, with posters of Sidney Crosby on the walls, because I had the biggest crush on him growing up.

“Sure, Mom. Be right back.”

I pull my roller bag up the stairs, taking in the new rustic decor that’s in contrast with the memories I have of the place. It’s cozy, but this house never really felt like home.

I walk down the hall that’s plastered with framed accomplishments—my father’s Cup runs, an article from his time on the All-Star team, his retirement announcement. Then it begins to chronicle my career with my NHL draft announcement and the article that called me one of the league’s most promising centers, my own All-Star game, and finally a glossy magazine story about the Hydras going after the Stanley Cup in our first year as a team. It feels heavy, a false veneer of achievements that hide the truth.

I pass my sister Vivian’s closed door. Smart of her to move to Toronto for college and never look back. She didn't stand a chance of making her own way outside of hockey, in a house that serves as a shrine to the sport rather than the people.

My father played for Montreal the majority of his career. It's where I was born. But we moved around a lot with my father being traded quite a bit toward the end of his hockey career. He finished it out with Ottawa, and we settled across the river in Gatineau, Québec, back in my home province, once he retired. I guess this could be considered my childhood home, but I didn’t want to be home with my dad’s expectations any longer than I had to. I jumped at the chance to play for teams around the province through junior hockey.

Bouncing between billet families across Québec taught me what was expected of a hockey hero—entitlement, ego, aggression, and above all, straightness. I learned to hide for my own safety. Until I met him.

I push open the door to my room. It really is a time capsule from the last time I lived here. Same blue comforter and walls, with Sid the Kid staring at me from every angle. Same furniture and display of trophies that once meant everything but mean so little to me now.

I drop my bag, my eyes landing on the trophy from junior championships when I played for a team in Montreal. My stomach violently seizes. I bring my hand up, fingertips tracing the slight indentation on my jaw as a phantom ache begins to throb deep in the bone. The trophy is supposed to serve as a reminder of our victory, perseverance, and dedication to the sport.

Instead, the sight of the polished metal triggers a sudden, freezing sweat at the nape of my neck. The heavy, metallic taste of copper floods my mouth. A loud, echoing slam of a heavy locker room door rings in my ears, so visceral I flinch.

My chest tightens, my breath turning into a shallow, panicked stutter. I can't look at it. I physically turn my back on the trophy, squeezing my eyes shut to block out the fragmented, rushing memories I’ve spent a decade outrunning. I squeeze my eyes shut, fingertips pressing into my temples as his hurt blue eyes flash across my brain.

I went home that year and never spoke to him again. I told myself I was protecting him by pushing him away, but the truth is, I was just terrified.

I manage to push it all back into the box and shove it on a shelf in the closet I've been locked in for ten years. When my hands stop trembling, I shake my head and turn to head back downstairs, stopping abruptly when my phone vibrates in my pocket. A surge of excitement that it might be Knight has me fishing it out and opening my messages, only to let out a huff of annoyance when I see it’s Thomas Rivers, an old hockey friend.

Thomas: Hey, all-star, I heard you’re back in town. Let’s grab a drink tonight with some of the guys and catch up. The League on Rue Laval at eight.

I roll my phone in my hand as I contemplate the offer. I don't dislike Thomas or the guys he’s referring to, but I also don't have much to say to them. They were summer friends from the neighborhood and my early hockey years, but we didn't stay close. I’m not even sure how he knew I was back.

“Westin, come down here, please,” my father bellows from below.

That’s a good enough reason to agree to meet up with Thomas. Being around my father is even less pleasant than small talk with old friends. I type back a reply.

Westin: Sounds good. See you then.