“So you read the article about me in GQ?” I ask, only to see him practically growl at me when I give him what I hope is a cocky smile.
“Just take the compliment, Monroe.” He side-eyes me. “I’m trying here.”
“You like a version of me?” I ask, shooting for casual, but my voice is still rougher than I want it to be.
He looks at me then, straight on. No smirk, no flinch. “Yeah, Roe. I do.”
My brain blanks. For a second the noise of the rink drops out.
Who knew Thatcher might shatter his own bubble?
Then he turns back to the ice, just like that, as though he hasn’t just opened me up and left the mess on the floor.
I don’t say anything for the rest of the game. Don’t trust what I’d say if I did. But I sit closer than I mean to. Our shoulders brush every time we lean forward. I can smell him—woodsmoke, sawdust, and something warmer beneath it.
Chapter ten
Gabe Thatcher
The Bench Social Media Group
Riley: Live update. Thatcher is ice carving at The Freeze and it’s unnecessarily attractive
Marge: what’s he carving this year?
Riley: fox. aka: himself. silent. elusive. emotionally unavailable but probably loyal once mated for life.
My back twinges with the effort of carving the ice. Not bad, but enough to make me stop and take a break.
“Looking good,” Benji, one of the players for the Iceguard says. He’s hovering outside the fenced-off area for the ice sculpting.
“Thanks, man.” I eye the fox—more artistically made than my normal work. The tail is a flurry behind the animal, as if he just shook off the snow, giving the ice movement.
“You usually play for the charity game. Thatcher, right?”
I nod. “Yeah.” And suddenly there’s another guy there too, the Iceguard goalie, who looks excited to talk to me for some reason.
“Well, maybe you lost track of time, because most folks are on the ice.”
“Oh.” I glance down at my watch, and sure enough, I had done just that. “Thanks. I got caught up here.”
The goalie, Diggs, looks like he wants to say something, but the other player, Benji, stops him with a look. Then with a nod to me, he wraps an arm around the goalie and leads him away, although the goalie gives me a backward glance I can’t read.
Strange.
The sun’s setting behind the trees when I step onto the outdoor rink, and everything looks dipped in gold. The charity game is already half chaos—kids in mismatched gear, adults slipping on borrowed skates, and Roe Monroe at center ice in a beanie that should not make him look that good.
I tighten the laces on my skates and try not to watch him. I fail at that. He’s laughing with Jamie and one of the other Iceguard guys, showing the kids how to angle their sticks for some trick shot. His whole face lights up when he laughs.
I didn’t know that about him before.
He catches me looking and sends a low nod across the ice—nothing big, nothing obvious, but I feel it all the same.
Jamie skates over and clutches my arm like he’s buzzing with electricity. This is one of the biggest community events in a town known for community events. “Dad. You’re on Roe’s team.”
I blink. “I thought I was on Wags’s team.”
“Last-minute trade,” Jamie grins. “Coach Riley said it’s for team chemistry.”
