He froze me out. And I guess I’m supposed to act like that doesn’t hurt.
By the time we hit the ice, I’m running on fumes. The cold should wake me up—it usually does—but all it does now is sharpen everything I don’t want to feel.
Todd’s already out there, skating drills with mechanical precision, not a wasted movement. He doesn’t look at me once. Not even when Coach pairs us up for defense drills.
Figures.
We’ve always played like we shared one brain—reading each other’s movements, anticipating the smallest shift, covering the gaps before they even opened. But now… it’s off. Everything’s off.
He turns left when I expect right. Holds the line too long. Misses the cue when I move to intercept. It’s nothing big—just small enough that Coach doesn’t notice—but I do.
I feel every fucking inch of the space between us.
A puck slips past us and clangs off the boards behindthe net. Normally we’d laugh it off. Now, he just skates back into position without a word.
My jaw tightens. “You gonna talk to me, or is the silent treatment part of the new space you need?”
His voice comes out flat. “Just focus on the drill, Logan.”
That stings more than it should.
“Yeah,” I mutter, lining back up beside him. “Wouldn’t want to mess up your perfect rhythm.”
He doesn’t rise to it—doesn’t even glance at me. Just keeps his eyes on the puck, body tense, movements jerkier than they need to be.
We make it through the rest of practice like that—two strangers forced to share the same ice. Every pass feels heavier, every shift longer. The easy flow we used to have is gone, replaced by something stiff and uneven.
When Coach finally blows the whistle, I rip off my gloves, chest heaving. My whole body’s vibrating with frustration. We used to skate like we were built from the same blueprint, but now every shift feels like a fight just to stay in sync.
Todd doesn’t even wait for the final call to end—he’s already heading for the tunnel, stick in hand, shoulders hunched like the weight of the world is sitting there.
I stare after him for half a second before following.
The hallway to the locker room smells like melted ice and sweat, the kind of scent that’s usually home. Today it just burns.
He’s halfway through pulling off his gear when I walk in. Doesn’t even look up.
“That was fun,” I say, voice tight. “Real team-building exercise.”
I toss my gloves into my cubby and rip off myjersey. Anger is starting to bloom inside my chest replacing the hurt. And I welcome it. Anything is better than the hole he’s put there with his silence.
He sighs, dragging a hand through his damp hair. “Logan, not now.”
“Then when?” I snap. “Because I’ve been waiting for two and a half weeks to hear from you, and all I’ve gotten is radio silence and whatever the hell that was out there.”
His shoulders go rigid, but he still won’t look at me. “I told you, it’s not a good time.”
“Yeah, you said that before you disappeared, too.” The words come out harsher than I mean them to, but I don’t stop. “You froze me out, Todd. You didn’t just need space—you built a wall and slammed the door.”
“I didn’t—” He finally turns toward me, eyes raw and tired. “It’s not about you.”
I laugh, sharp and humorless. “Really? Because it feels a hell of a lot like it is. Especially since kissing me in public is what caused all of this.”
He shakes his head, voice cracking a little. “You don’t understand.”
“Then make me,” I shoot back. “Because from where I’m standing, you’re the one walking away like none of it mattered. Like I didn’t matter.”
Todd swallows hard, and for a second, I see it—the guilt, the ache—but he looks away fast, jaw tightening. “It’s not that simple.”
