Page 41 of Thin Ice

I force myself to watch my shame wash down the drain before I crank the water hotter. The spray scalds my skin, but I don’t care. I find the bar of soap I dropped and do what I came to do before, scrubbing myself clean of them.

When I’m finished, I throw on a fresh set of clothes and stand in front of the fogged bathroom mirror. I clear some of it away with my towel until I see myself, then I grip the sides of the sink and breathe.

When I was in therapy and attending solo retreats, we did something called Mirror Work: the exercise of talking to yourself in the mirror and telling yourself things you like about you, building up your self-esteem in a way that’s helpful, not harmful. It’s always been a good exercise for me to turn to when old negative self-talk creeps back into my mind.

I cycle through a few more breaths before I speak to myself. “You’re fine, Beck. You’re fine. You can do this. You’re not a bad person.”

The affirmations taste like sour milk on my tongue, but I repeat them until the churning in my stomach lessens. After that, I move through a few stretches, attempting to rid myself of everything I felt and everything I did before, during, and after my shower of shame.

My phone pings, a reminder that the group session starts in ten minutes, and I finish my last stretch, lightly smacking each side of my face and popping my shoulders back. It’s something I used to do before each hockey game, a ritual I’ve continued before each session I participate in.

I’ve got this. I can do this. I will no longer let the Ashcrofts get to me.

Chapter seventeen

Noah

“Holy shite. The elusive Noah Ashcroft has answered his fecking phone,” Aidan’s Irish brogue echoes through my cell.

I shift on the edge of our bungalow’s plunge pool, the brisk water feeling good against my sore feet and legs. I definitely overdid the running at the gym the past couple of days.

“Yeah, yeah. I emailed you.”

“You emailed me an itinerary to some random place in the desert. You hate the heat.”

“I do.” My tone is clipped enough that Aidan pauses on the other end before he speaks again.

“Right, then. I’ll get to the point. I emailed you an offer for a brand deal that came through. Look over the terms, and tell me if you want to accept or not.”

“You’re serious?”

“I don’t joke about money.”

“You don’t joke at all.”

“Then don’t ask me if I’m serious. Read it over, and let me know by Wednesday.”

“They want me after everything?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” he deadpans.

“Don’t play dumb.”

“Don’t be dumb,” Aidan shoots back.

The ghost of a smile plays on my lips. He may be a dick, but I’m happy he’s back to being his jolly self. I prefer this over the pitying version from last week.

“Good deal, then?” I ask, curious what a brand would offer a player who so recently fucked up one of the biggest games of his life.

“Would I send it to you if it wasn’t?”

I click my tongue against the back of my teeth. “No, you wouldn’t.” And it’s true. Aidan Maguire is a bulldog. He learned from the best sports agent in the business, Leo McKnight, who could have been one of the great hockey players of our time had he not gotten injured and retired. Aidan’s never sent me a bad deal and always does a thorough check on the companies I work with to confirm they align with my morals and values.

“What’s your answer?”

“I’ll look it over and tell you by Wednesday.”

Aidan grunts his reply just as the evening light is blocked, casting a shadow over me. I look up to find Quinn in her bathing suit, and my mouth goes dry at the sight. The sun, low in the sky as it sets, creates a beautiful golden-hour glow behind her body, accentuating her mouthwatering curves. The yellow bikini she’s wearing leaves little to the imagination, the triangle-shaped fabric on her breasts covering only what it absolutely has to.