We made cookies for my line-mates on weekends. Or baked anything for my family, my friends, for just us.
We cooked together. We slept together.
She made fun of me for getting flour in my hair. I made fun of her for managing to get icing on her neck.
I licked it off.
We didn’t talk about that part. We didn’t talk about a lot of things.
But we did touch. A lot. We kissed like the world was ending, fell into bed without ever needing an excuse, and spent entire mornings tangled in sheets that smelled like her shampoo and my aftershave. She made my place feel less like a crash pad and more like a home.
And God, I was falling for her. Harder every day.
I tried to ignore it, tried to keep things light, casual, the way we’d agreed. But some nights, I’d lie awake with her breathing softly beside me, and I’d wonder what the hell I was doing.
Now it was April, and the Frozen Four final was only a few days away.
Everyone kept asking if I was ready, if I was dialed in. I gave them the usual answers—“Yeah, of course,” “Locked in,” “One game at a time”—but my head was all over the place.
I should’ve been thinking about the championship. Instead, I was thinking about Alana. About her in my hoodie. About her saying hi to Austin. About how my chest felt like it might cave in every time she looked at that guy and smiled.
I wanted to be the one she smiled at like that. Always. Only me.
And I had no clue if I already was.
So I just kept my mouth shut. Pretended like everything was fine. That I wasn’t falling harder every damn day.
Because if I said the words and she didn’t feel the same?
That’d hurt more than any hit I’d ever taken on the ice.
The Frozen Four final was just days away, and instead of being at the rink or watching tapes, I was out here with Alana.
We’d driven out to this random spot just outside of town, tucked between some old-ass trees and a still kind of muddy, half-thawed lake. Not exactly social media worthy or anything. Just quiet. Secluded. The kind of place where it felt okay to breathe.
Alana said she used to come here when she was younger. When stuff at home got loud and she needed space. She didn’t talk about her childhood much. And when she did, it was always in weird little puzzle pieces. Like it sucked to remember, but she still wanted me to get it.
“This was one of the only places I actually liked growing up,” she said as we climbed down this uneven hill toward the water. “It’s weird being back.”
I looked at her for a second. The wind pushed a few strands of her hair across her face, and she brushed them away without even thinking.
“Weird how?” I asked, my voice quieter than usual.
She dropped down into the tall grass and tugged her sleeves over her hands. “I used to come here to feel like I could get away. Like maybe things didn’t suck as much as they felt.” She let out a soft laugh. “Now I’m here with you and things don’t suck at all. I don’t know. It’s just… different.”
I sat next to her, close enough that our shoulders brushed. She didn’t move away or anything.
“So basically, I ruined your sad vibes?” I said.
She rolled her eyes, but there was a tiny smile tugging at the edge of her mouth. “You kinda did.”
We sat there for a while, not saying much. The lake wasn’t frozen or anything, but it still looked cold—kind of silvery and still, with little ripples catching the light. The wind carried that early-spring smell. Damp dirt, old leaves, something sharp and clean. No buzzing phones. No team noise. Just trees rustling and a bird chirping somewhere in the distance.
Just her. Me. And all the crap we weren’t saying.
I picked up a rock and chucked it toward the water. It skipped once. Sank.
Suddenly, Alana spoke. “You nervous? About the final?”
