Page 59 of Thin Ice

Beck believed in people. He thought they’d accept us. But back then, I couldn’t name a single player who was out, especially not in the NHL.

It’s different now, more open. Like Johnny on my team, he doesn’t hide that he’s bi, and some of my teammates know I’m queer from late nights and too many drinks. Our goalie, Brady, is pan. But years ago? It didn’t feel possible.

And it wasn’t just hockey—it was our families. Beck’s was always more open-minded and liberal than mine. Beck had also told them he was bi during our senior year, I think in hopes I’d follow suit.

But my parents are conservative, and all my dad ever cared about was me making the NHL. When I met Quinn, the first thing he said was, “Don’t let women interfere with your career. There will be time for that later.”

I did eventually tell my mom I’m bi. She was surprisingly accepting, but as far as I know, she has chosen not to tell my dad. If she has, he ignores it, which I’m fine with. I keep contact with him at a minimum now, mostly listening to his voicemails instead of talking to him one-on-one.

Regardless, the important people in my life know who I am, and that’s what matters to me. Had Beck and I found each other later in life, maybe things could have been different. But that’s not the case, and thinking about that means I lose Quinn—and I don’t want to lose her.

“Right,” Beck says. “Your silence is all the answer I need.”

He jabs a finger at me.

“Don’t go back on that treadmill. I’m not taking you to the emergency room tonight.”

He moves to leave, but before he can go, I grab his forearm, pulling him to me. We stand closer now, my heavy breaths mingling with his.

“Why are you acting like a jealous ex-boyfriend?” I ask. “You made it clear that is not what we were.”

I swear Beck growls. “I’m not—”

“You are. The challenges, the comments in front of Quinn. You’re still pissed at me and acting like a child.”

“Says the man who promised not to run but is anyway.”

My fingers dig harder into his forearm. “Not that it’s any of your business, but Quinn knows I’m here. I am not running away.”

He huffs. “Stop lying to yourself.”

“I’m fucking not—”

“You may not realize it, but no matter if Quinn told you to come here or not, you trying to run at the highest setting and exert yourself to the point of exhaustion is not facing your issues.”

My skin goes clammy. “Stop acting like you know me. You don’t know me anymore,” I say, voice hoarse.

Beck comes closer, and even though I tell my brain to let go of his arm, I don’t. “That’s where you’re wrong. I do know you. You’re still the same scared boy who told me what we had wasn’t important enough to fight for, the one who puts hockey and his success over everything else in his life. So much so that he can’t even satisfy his wife.”

Anger coils inside me like a snake, the venom in my mouth pooling to strike. “Fuck you, Anders.”

“Fuck you right back, Ashcroft.”

The pounding of my heart is so loud in my ears, it’s deafening. I’m angry at him, so fucking angry I want to punch him in the face, but I’m angrier at myself. I’m pissed at my failures with not only him but also Quinn being brought to the surface. I’m even more upset that he’s right about it all and that he knows he’s right—that he can see through me so well after ten fucking years of not seeing me at all.

We stare at each other for a long time, but none of the tension between us eases. I don’t make a move to let go of him, and in the time we’ve been standing here in a heated face-off, he’s gotten even closer to me. His exhales fan over my cooling face, the smell of mint on his breath and the masculine scent of him tickling my nostrils.

I haven’t been this close to him since our last time together. I remember it like it was yesterday, the moment he grabbed me by the collar and pressed me up against our dorm room door. The way his tongue dominated mine before he shoved me down to my knees with a half smile on his lips that always made me weak.

I breathe shallowly, and Beck’s hand appears in my peripheral vision. I think he’s going to cup my cheek, but instead, he brushes his fingers through my damp hair. I shiver at the contact, air freezing in my lungs altogether.

“Your hair got darker,” he notes, tenderly trailing his fingers down until he ghosts over the shell of my ear.

My hand, still gripping his forearm, flexes on his thick muscle. “Bodies change as they age.”

He hums, his finger shifting to travel down my jaw until he’s holding my chin between his fingers, and our eyes meet again. “You still cut your beard the same, though. Perfect as always.”

“And you still don’t like to cut your hair.”