Page 24 of Mountain Men on Ice

Thatcher blinks. The fury falters, replaced by suspicion. “You love her?”

“Yes.” My throat burns. “But I’m not whole. Not anymore. You’ve seen my knee. You’ve read the stats. I’m hanging on by tape and pride. And Stevie—she deserves more than a broken hockey player who might be done before he’s thirty.”

He studies me, jaw tight. “She doesn’t care about your knee, Grady. She cares about you.”

“You think I don’t know that? That’s the problem. She looks at me like I’m someone. But I’m not. Not anymore.”

For a long beat, neither of us speaks. Rain streaks down the glass like punctuation.

Then Thatcher exhales, slow, like deflating. “You’re an idiot.”

“Thanks,” I mutter.

“You’re also my best friend. Which is the only reason I’m not dragging you by your neck to her door right now.” His voice softens just enough to sting.

“She’s always been the brave one. Singing when nobody listened. Dreaming when everybody told her it was just a hobby. And you—big, tough Grady Jones—you’re gonna let fear keep you from her?”

I flinch.

He steps closer, claps a heavy hand on my shoulder. “If you love her, treat her like a queen. Make it up to her. Prove it. Or I swear, friend or not, I will kick your ass into next week.”

I give a humorless laugh. “With this knee? That wouldn’t be hard.”

He smirks, but only for a second. “Then fix it. Rehab it. But don’t think for one second that girl cares about your stats more than she cares about you showing up.”

The silence after is heavier, but it’s different—less storm, more truth settling.

For the first time since Alaska, the weight shifts in my chest.

I think of Stevie on the couch, straddling me with firelight painting her freckles gold. Of her voice soft at my ear: Let me take care of you. Of her bravery inked under her ribs where no one else sees it.

She didn’t wait for permission to begin. Why should I?

I nod once, jaw tight. “You’re right.”

“Damn straight I am.” He heads for the door, still bristling, but not murderous. “You’ve got one shot, Jones. Don’t blow it.”

When he’s gone, the penthouse is quiet again.

I limp to the window, palm flat on the cold glass, and catch my reflection. I don’t know the man I see.

I grab my phone.

It’s time I learned.

NINE

STEVIE

My gut twists as I step into the honey arena.

The familiar scents of popcorn and adrenaline tickle my nose along with the cold. Normally, I’d find that comforting. It’s usually a reminder of growing up in the bleachers. Waving homemade signs for Thatcher. Pretending being known exclusively as “the little sister” didn’t bother me.

Tonight… Well, tonight, I frankly can’t decide why I let my brother talk me into being here. But after spending the past few days hiding in my apartment, I was afraid he’d stage an intervention if I didn’t make an appearance.

I sit in the lower bowl, wrapped in a jacket two sizes too big, hands buried in the pockets, telling myself I came because Thatcher asked. That it’s just one more game. That I can watch, clap politely, and go home to the songs I’ve been avoiding writing.

I should feel proud. My brother, the star. The crowd wearing his number on jerseys and painted across cheeks. And I am proud, somewhere under the ache. But mostly I’m just tired.