Page 17 of Shattered On Ice

I look around the table and clock the empty pitchers. “Let’s grab another round,” I suggest, instead of answering. I’ll play it casual and see how tonight goes.

Ethan nods and follows me out of the booth. “Wanna check out the jukebox first?” He thumbs toward the other side of the bar where the ancient jukebox stands, its pages of song titles long out of date, but beloved by the people who frequent it anyway. It’s currently available, as patrons are more focused on the baseball game showing on the many screens above the bar.

“Think they’ll have anything from this century finally?” I ask.

He chuckles. “You think this place has modernized since you last visited?”

I shake my head in defeat, knowing he’s right. We slip through the crowd until the glowing jukebox is before us, the dismal list of eighties power ballads and nineties grunge, country, and girl anthems that were popular in Canada still the same as they were the last time I was here.

Ethan hits a few buttons, making the pages flip and the jukebox clunk until Alanis Morissette’s bitter, betrayed voice begins singing “You Oughta Know”. All the women in the bar, and a few of the men, begin singing along at the top of their lungs, screaming the chorus with Alanis.

I look at Ethan, who leans his hip against the wall next to the jukebox. “Trying to get a message across, or just feeling jaded and in need of a cathartic vocal release?” I ask as I lean next to him.

“Alanis is a national treasure,” he says with a smug smile. “And it doesn't hurt to keep you on your toes and wondering if you did something wrong. You tend to be more giving that way, and I like it when you give it to me.”

He slides a hand up my side, his large frame boxing me in against the wall next to the jukebox. It’s an innocent touch to any onlookers, but the sudden feeling of being cornered against a wall by a hockey player sends a violent jolt of dread coursing through me. My breath goes dangerously shallow. The phantom ache in my jaw flares into a sharp, aching throb. For a split second, I’m no longer in a crowded sports bar. I’m backed into a concrete corner, surrounded by heavy boots and cruelty.

I force a jagged breath through my teeth and scan the shadows of the room, my muscles coiled, paranoid that malicious eyes are locked onto us. I have to physically force the carefree All-Star mask to snap back into place over my panic before anyone notices.

“What are you doing?” I ask slowly, trying to keep still and not yank away, which would just draw more attention. “You know I don't like to do anything where people can see.” There’s an inherent wrongness about the touch that my body knows faster than my brain can pinpoint. I don't want to be touched by Ethan. I want him to be Knight.

“What, this?” he asks, sliding his hand around to my back and slowly rubbing up and down. “Just checking out how the new team has been treating you. You feel écœurant,” he drawls. “I can't wait to see you with your clothes off.”

I step away abruptly, not caring if it causes a commotion or draws attention after all. I just know I don't want his hands on me any longer. Being touched by Ethan feels more dishonest than living without Knight.

The contrast is staggering. Ethan’s covert, casual touch fills me with dread, but on a packed dance floor, all I wanted was Knight. I kissed Knight like my world was exploding, and he was the only thing that would keep me together. I danced with him without thinking twice about the consequences because I had to touch him, to be close to him, and needed him in my arms. I took him into a hallway and dry humped him until I came in my pants because I was so focused on how it felt to be near him with unrestrained access and the knowledge that he wanted it as much as I did.

While my brain has been putting up a good fight and trying to white-knuckle my way to logic, my body wants Knight, plain and simple, and nothing else will do. So much for a casual hook-up to let off some steam and hopefully get past this hang-up I have on a totally off-limits guy.

“I can't do this,” I tell Ethan, honestly. No need to explain why. That’s for me to deal with.

His face drops into disappointment, but he shrugs it off quickly. “No worries, man, I get it. Hanging in the closet is hard work. I hope you find a way out someday, and whoever you end up with will be a very lucky guy.”

Six

Knight

Ishut down my laptop, the screen going black and the whir of the fan ceasing, but the dense quiet of my office can't erase the weight of my last session. It was a heavy day to be a therapist. Between the crushing political news and skyrocketing inflation, my patients are carrying perfect storms of anxiety and stress. Being an empathetic sponge, I end up carrying it with them. I push my glasses up and rub my eyes, noticing the familiar, helpless burnout creeping in. I need my own coping mechanisms and boundaries, and I need them now. I grab my running shoes.

As I’m tying my laces, my phone chimes with a new text. I pause and open it, wondering if Rook sent something, but it’s from Westin.

Westin: Did you know it’s light out from before six A.M. to almost nine P.M. in the summer in Québec?

I let out a surprised laugh at the unexpected message and type back a reply.

Knight: I never thought about it, but Minnesota has long daylight hours like that in the summer as well. It was brutal before I had blackout curtains.

Who knew the second time he would text me it would be about the amount of daylight he’s enduring, but I like it. Knowing he’s thinking about me puts a bounce in my step as I stand, ready to hit the street and face the sweltering Atlanta evening for a mind-clearing run. His reply comes as I’m walking out the door, earbuds in and Benson Boone playing.

Westin: Well, my parents don't believe in blackout curtains, and they get up at the ass crack of dawn, which means *I* have been getting up that early also. My sleep schedule is ruined.

Kind of like me, after kissing you, I think. But I type back a different message, smiling softly.

Knight: How much longer will you be there? Hopefully it’s not as tragic as you're making it out to be *winky face emoji*

I keep my phone in hand, not wanting to miss a message, as I start a slow jog to warm up, heading toward a local park for an easy few miles in the shade. I pass my favorite coffee shop that I sometimes walk to between clients when I need to get out of the house. They always have a pup cup for Indiana and know my order now—iced brown sugar cinnamon oat milk latte, because I’m a bougie bitch and like my coffee to taste good. So what if the place is called the Unicorn Café and it’s done up in bright turquoise and known more for its tea parties and glittering tiaras than true coffee? They make a killer latte and treat my dog like the princess she is. I’ve even seen Harlowe Olsen, the amazing foodie influencer, there, so celebrity sightings also occur.

By the time I get to the park, I’ve fully warmed up and set a moderate pace for an easy run. These midweek runs are more for clearing the noise and clutter in my head than endurance training. It’s blissfully shady here, which means a small reprieve from the scorching Georgia sun, but it’s still humid, and my shirt is quickly soaked through. I whip it off and tuck it into the back of my shorts, not bothering to stop my run. My phone chimes again, and I unlock it, ready for whatever Westin has to say to my light teasing.