Page 35 of Crack the Ice

The final whistle blows, and I don’t think twice before hopping off the ice and heading straight for the locker room before anyone can stop me.

The urge to throw my helmet across the room is strong. We lost, and it wasn’t just a regular loss. It was a game that was unfairly called from top to bottom. So much so that even the Hurricanes’ coach said something to the refs about it. My teammates are banged up, and the fucking cherry on top of all that is we’ve officially lost our chance to win the cup again. That’s it, the season’s over.

I snatch my phone off the bench, ready to text Kelsey because she’s usually who I vent to, when the group text lights up. My breath catches, eyes glued to the screen where a picture of Cecilia holding Mia sits. Her long black hair is straight today, and she’s wearing the pale pink Hawks sweatshirt I got her the first year I played for this team. But it’s the smile on her face and the way she’s looking at Mia, who’s got her tiny fingers wrapped around Cecy’s, that has me stumbling backward until I’m sitting on the bench.

Some women are just born to be caretakers, and Cecilia is one of them. From young to old, if she can help, she will. My mind quiets the longer I stare at the screen.

That could have been us. It should have been us, if I’d just gotten my head out of my ass and continued to love her like I did at the start. Instead, I took her for granted, chose everyone and everything above her because I knew she’d be there waiting for me at the end of it. But she got tired of that, rightfully so.

I exit the text, not being able to focus on shit with that picture there. The second I get to the main screen of my texts, though, I do a double take, convinced I’m seeing things.

Cecilia

I’m sorry for being an ass.

I didn’t even think to ask how you’re doing.

I know dealing with all this can’t be easy on you.

She still sees me, even now. She sees past the facade I’ve become so comfortable hiding behind, as she asks. Though back when we were kids, it came in the form of “tell me two good things about your day, and one thing you’d change.

I smile at the thought. Maybe this could bring us back to some kind of even footing.

Three good things:

I got to play the sport I love even with a shitty outcome.

You texted me.

I’ve got two kids waiting for me at home.

One thing I’d change:

You’d tell me what happened to make you hate me.

I don’t have to wait long for a response.

Cecilia

Hate is the furthest thing I feel for you, but it’s better this way.

You’re a good man, Mav.

They’re lucky to have you. Sorry about the loss. Those refs were awful.

I type out and delete six different messages ranging from “I’d be a better man if you were by my side.” to “I’m lucky to have them.” and maybe a “Okay, so we’re just going to say sorry and then not tell me why you stay away.”

My frustration bubbles over, and I may let that show more than I intended.

Better for who exactly, Cecilia?

Those three dots dance, taunting me with every pass they make. Time stretches. One minute turns to five, and I’m still staring at this stupid screen pleading for her to give me something, anything.

I don’t know how to answer that without opening a door I’m not sure I’m ready to walk through yet.

My head falls forward. I know better than to push, but God do I want to. Before I can figure out what to say, my phone lights up again.

Lily