I glance over at the coffee cart where Riley’s smirking at Marge Calloway. I briefly close my eyes. Despite my best efforts, it appears I am firmly part of the Fox River Falls gossip chain.
Jamie takes off again, leaving me alone with the knowledge that I’m about to play side by side with Roe in front of the whole damn town.
Roe skates up beside me a few minutes later, beanie exchanged for a helmet. “So. Team chemistry.”
His eyes are gleaming, and there’s something in his voice—like he knows this is pushing me but also knows I’ll let it happen anyway. He knows I’ll be a good sport and play because it’ll bring the town together.
“You any good?” I ask, because it’s safer than saying what I actually want to say.
“I’ve been told I’m passable,” he says with a laugh, clearly happy I’m playing along.
I bite back a laugh.
He’s more than passable. Even at half speed, even being careful not to show off, he moves like a storm in skates.
He’s decked out in Iceguard gear from head to toe, clearly here to represent the team, and there’s a large cheer section that appears to be made up of other players.
The game starts, and it’s mayhem in the best way. Most of these folks hit the ice occasionally at best. There’s a kid from the bakery scoring goals, two town council members fighting over who gets to be goalie, and Roe, beside me, laughing more than I’ve ever seen him. Thankfully, there are enough kids playingfrom the younger teams to keep order. They have a high schooler at the net and he’s not afraid to show off his skills.
Roe’s the only Iceguard player on the ice, though, and I think it has something to do with whatever role he has that’s kept him out here all day at The Freeze. He’s careful to always assist and never take the spotlight or keep the puck on his tape for very long.
Roe and I pass the puck between us without speaking, as though we’ve been doing this forever. Every assist, every glance . . . it clicks. As if we were built to move in sync.
But it’s more than hockey. It’s the way his eyes catch mine after each pass, as though he’s testing how long I’ll look back. The air sharpens, humming with something heavier than the scrape of blades or the echo of the puck.
I feel it in my chest, in the deliberate pause before I send the puck back, in the drag of his stride as if he doesn’t want the rhythm to end. My palms sweat inside my gloves. Stupid.
We’re just messing around—it can hardly even be called a game with the very lax interpretation of the rules. This is for fun. For charity. To let the kids and high schoolers make the big plays.
But then he grins, cocky and alive, and my stomach drops as if I’ve missed a step on the stairs.
We fall into rhythm without thinking, drifting into a two-man drill we never planned. He slides the puck my way and I send it back, faster this time, testing him. He meets it clean, doesn’t even flinch, then angles into open ice. I follow, instinct carrying me where he needs me to be.
Every pass is a conversation without words. A brush of blades when we cross paths, the faint scrape of his glove against mine when he flips the puck too close. Each time we touch, even by accident, something sparks low in my chest.
He pushes forward, I trail just enough, and when I step into his blind spot, he doesn’t hesitate—just drops the puck behind him like he knows I’ll be there. And I am. Always.
We move in tighter circles, the game shrinking down until it feels like it’s only us out here. Our skates whisper over the ice in the same rhythm, our breaths coming faster as the drill turns sharper, faster, until we’re both laughing under it.
We win by a goal. Roe scores it with a trick shot, of course, but he skates straight to me after, bumping his shoulder into mine like we’re the only ones on the ice.
“You’re not bad,” he says.
I roll my eyes. “You’re lucky I didn’t check you into a snowbank.”
“You still could,” he says, and it’s teasing but not. His voice is low, serious underneath.
An image of me pushing him into a snowbank and then following his body down with mine flashes in my head.
And I think—do it.
Say something. Move.
But I don’t. I skate back. When I do, I can feel the temptation to be near him. It’s a tangible thing, a pull I don’t know how I can keep ignoring.
The rest of the evening is a blur. I send Jamie out for a late bite with Arch and his family, giving me time to complete the ice sculpture. The community game was the last Freeze event for the day, and since the sculptures aren’t due to be ready for judging until midday tomorrow, the place clears out quickly except for a few folks cleaning up or grabbing the last hot cocoas before the trailer closes.
Later, when the string of lights that are strung up over the carving stations are the only light, too soft for the ice-carving work, I look up to see Roe watching me.
