I nod, starting to tie up my laces on my skates. It feels like shrugging on a warm sweater, settling back into them. “I can’t wait for you to share with the class.”
Winnie snorts. “I’m taking it to my grave.”
“Comforting.”
I should be enjoying myself on the ice. It’s home. The crisp air of the rink settles into my lungs and makes me think that this is exactly what I need. This place has carved out a home in my heart and has made it incredibly difficult to do anything else other than appreciate my position in life. I don’t know where I’d be if I weren’t a hockey player, and I truly think the onlycorrect answer to that right now is depressed.
What would make my day better, and allow me to enjoy myself, is if Taylor looked at me. She couldn’t talk to me during the morning skate, and then she was on the opposite side of the group huddle when getting our instructions from our coaches. I tried to catch her eye, but she refused to look at me.
What’s even more irritating is that we’re playing well together, and our passes are connecting. But every time I try to talk to her, she turns away. Her cheeks are this pretty red, which has to be from the exertion of the practice.
There’s no other explanation.
Well.
No, that’s a lie. It could be that she’s embarrassed that I know what she feels like when cuddling. I loved it.
I can’t imagine not enjoying being curled up in her arms as the little spoon. But she bolted the second morning, and then as soon as we got off the plane, she bolted again.
We didn’t even catch a rideshare back to our apartments together.
So, maybe she’s embarrassed that we cuddled or that I know she enjoyed letting loose.
Or that I know so much more about her and her relationships with Rosie and Frank. I think that would make me embarrassed if she knew more about my relationship with my ex and how little we interacted before we broke up. But there’s something going onbetween her and Winnie that makes me think there’s more than just me.
“Taylor,” I call out, gliding over to her as Coach Lawson tells the attacking group of forwards where he wants them to go and what he wants them to do.
“What?” she groans, barely able to look me in the face. Her tone is more whiney than frustrated, and something about it has my stomach twisting. Does she want us to be friends still?
I feel like a fucking child, worrying if she wants to be friends.
“When Rhea goes left, she’s going to try to pass it across the ice to Isabella. I’ll go top centre if you come in behind. It should block them,” I point. The coaches on the bench seem to think that we know what we’re doing, which is comforting, but at the same time, they’re leaving us to see if we can work together and not kill each other.
It’s been successful so far.
And this could clinch us as line mates for the season and maybe even my entire contract with the Vortex. It would save her from unnecessary change and undue stress with having to learn new playing styles with a new teammate.
So, the fact that she’s not talking to me, that she’s actively avoiding looking in my direction, is driving me insane.
It’s like she’s actively trying to destabilize her position before her contract negotiations.
Taylor nods, eyes flashing to me, her face bright red, most likely from exertion. I look back at Winnie, catching her eyes through her mask as I shrug. She knows what’s going on with Taylor. Something happened last night that no one other than Winnie and Taylor are privy to, and I feel like tattling on Winnie to Brynn.
Which is even more childish than the frustration I’m feeling because of Taylor ignoring me.
I don’t have time to skate over to Winnie to chat because the whistle blows, catching me off guard. Rhea Turner’s line—with the two new rookies Isabella Nguyen on the left and Grace Mitchell as centre—looks murderous with their precise passes and quick skating, but they’re predictable. Rhea’s upper body telegraphs where she’s going to shoot the puck, forcing me to skate up to the centre.
But someone’s there.
The same someone I just told the plan to.
We jolt apart as quickly as we come together, and I’m scrambling to get back on my skates before Isabella takes the shot. It’s a harsh dive with my stick out to try to block the pass, but a wrist shot from her has it in the top left corner of the net.
And I crash into Winnie, who falls on top of me.
The weight of her forces the breath out of my lungs, and I’m praying I don’t crack anything as I wait for her to get up. “You good?” she asks.
“Yeah, sorry,” I groan, “Get your heavy ass padsoff of me?”
