Page 14 of Mountain Men on Ice

It won’t torture me if I’m careful.

In the kitchen I pull a skillet and far too many ingredients. She leans against the counter, watching like it’s live theater. Every time our eyes catch, something bright and stupid fizzes through me. I chop, sauté, and try not to memorize the way she tucks a stray lock, the way she hums when she’s happy.

The way she looks at me like I’m more than a broken version of myself.

She takes a bite of the pasta sauce I offer her and rolls her eyes in ecstasy. “If you keep letting me win and feeding me dinner, I’m going to think you like me.”

“That’s a serious accusation,” I say, sliding the pan into the oven.

“Is it wrong?”

I wipe my hands. “Ask me later.”

Her smile is slow and a little shy. “I don’t need to. I already know.”

FIVE

STEVIE

The cabin is quiet. It’s as if the blizzard that blew has tucked us in under a blanket for the evening.

After tidying up the kitchen, we say goodnight and go our separate ways. To separate rooms. And our separate beds. Like responsible, well-behaved adults.

I last ten minutes.

I’m on my way to fill my water bottle when I noticed the light from under the crack of the den door.

But it’s the sound I recognize that gives me pause. It’s the roaring of a crowd in a hockey arena. The voice of the play-by-play commentator.

And the unmistakable sound of every person in that frame wincing in sympathy as one of the best enforcers in the league goes down.

I hover in the doorway. The TV glow cuts Grady’s jaw into planes and shadows. His hoodie is pushed up, exposing his muscular, inked forearms. On the screen, his number streaks across the ice. He makes the hit. His leg tangles with his opponent.

Their bodies fall to the ground.

The image, the noises pause. It rewinds, and it plays again.

I can’t let him keep doing this. And not just because I promised my brother I’d make him stop.

“Grady.” My voice is quiet.

He doesn’t look at me. He rewinds again. Plays it again.

I walk closer and lower myself onto the arm of the sofa. He keeps his eyes focused on the screen.

“You shouldn’t keep watching this,” I say.

He swallows. The tendons in his neck flex.

“I need to know what I could have done differently,” he says, voice raw. “I need to know where I went wrong.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong. You got hurt.”

“Same thing,” he says, bitter. “It feels like the same thing.”

I pick up the remote, turn off the screen and face him. The fire settles. The wind, more faint now, blows outside the window.

“You’re still you,” I say. “You’re still you.”