Page 9 of Crack the Ice

Time flies as we move through our routine. We’re a well-oiled machine, the three of us. Our leg day consists of the same six exercises in the same order, every single time we go through it.

Sweat drips down my body, creating a puddle by my feet as I push up through my heels for my last squat of the day. Start with hip thrusts, end with squats. Not sure this was the best idea considering we have a game tomorrow, but it was better than the alternative.

The alternative being trying to figure out all the reasons Cecilia might have been crying earlier. But most importantly, how do I get her to let me fix it?

I catch myself on that last thought, and put the barbell down. How do I get her to let me fix it? Like she’s another problem I’m solving. As if five years of her keeping her distance is fixable with the right play. She’d rip me a new asshole if she knew I thought of it that way.

Hell, I hate it. That’s the problem with being the fixer your whole life. Eventually you stop being able to tell the difference between caring about someone and needing to resolve whatever it is that's making them hurt.

I think I know what I need to do. I’m just not sure how. Yet

* My God

THREE

CECILIA

My tongue sticks out the side of my mouth as I set the last of the cupcakes in the display case. The soft melodic sound of my mother’s voice floats through the phone on the counter as she drones on and on about how proud of me she is.

Don’t get me wrong, I love it. But I’ve almost tipped this stand like four times, and I can’t deal with the stress anymore.

I need something sturdier, with a little more width to it. This stand is pretty, kind of like a princess wand, but the stem is so thin that it’s a gust of air away from being dust in the wind.

“Cecy, I know you’re busy,” my mom says, and I already know I’m not going to like what she’s about to ask.

I sigh, “¿Qué necesitas, mamá?”⁠*

Her soft chuckle pulls a smile from me as I take in the display. It’s filled to the brim, and extras are waiting on the racks in the back. Was it overzealous? Probably, but I’d rather have too many than not enough. Whatever doesn’t sell at the end of the day, I’ll take to the homeless shelter or see if any kids from the Wilder Foundation could benefit from them.

“I have a client coming in from Argentina next month. His name is Liam. Do you think you could take him out to dinner?”

I inhale deeply through my nose, screwing my eyes shut because I already know the drill, this is nothing new. “Fine, send me the info. Two hours, that’s all I’m willing to spend.”

“Ay, Cecy,” she chastises. “It’s just dinner, cariño.” ⁠*

“Okay, I gotta go. Te quiero mucho.”⁠*

“Yo también.⁠* Good luck today.”

“Thanks, mamá.” I hang up and walk around the front of the counter.

It’s the grand opening for The Penalty Box, and while I’ve had nothing but great feedback, I’m not naive enough to think someone isn’t going to have something negative to say at some point today, or ever. There are endless possibilities, and I’ve run through most of them in my head.

It doesn’t make sense to have a hockey-themed bakery. Why did you think that was a good idea? This is weird. You’re trying too hard. This is kind of embarrassing, actually. How’d you even come up with this? Everything is too sweet, the theme is confusing, the whole thing feels like a joke.

And then like the wind, my thoughts shift. Lucky me, my brain can’t just pick one angle to attack. It cycles through them all like it’s test-driving which will do the most damage.

You’re not qualified. You don’t have a degree. No training, no proof that you know what you’re doing. You wouldn’t even have customers if it weren’t for your brother and his team posting about the bread you make all the time. You’re an imposter, and people will figure that out sooner or later.

The worst part of it all? I rarely fight back these days. I’ve reached the point that there’s no real separation anymore. The voice in my head doesn’t sound like some far-away foreign entity. It sounds like me.

But all that falls away in the kitchen. I thrive when I’m covered in flour, creating things with my own two hands, trying and failing at different flavor combinations, but up to this point I’ve only ever given my creations to friends and family. As soon as I flip the lock on the door, I’m physically opening the door to criticism and poor reviews.

It doesn’t take long for me to find at least seven things I could change to make this display look better, but luckily, Lana walks through the door with coffee and… Her brother.

Screw him and that stupid backward hat.

“Happy grand opening, Cecy!” Lana cries as she throws her arms around my shoulders, leaving her brother standing behind her, with a small smirk and a coffee in each hand.