Page 38 of Home Ice

“And what about you?”

“Me?”

The look on Dad’s face warns me that I’m going to hate whatever comes next. “Think he’s a bit of all right?”

Something tickles my gut. Hawke is … fuck, he’s sexy. The athlete’s body, that brooding stare, the way he carries himself with so much goddamn confidence I want to strangle him for being so talented and knowing it.

“A bit more than all right, then?” Dad teases.

I huff and brush it off. “Obviously, he’s good-looking. I have eyes. At this point, I’m happy to be back on speaking terms, and if we end up friends again, even better.”

Dad grows serious. “You missed him. I’m sorry about that.”

“I missed him a lot. But that’s not your fault.”

“Course it isn’t. I didn’t ask to have a stroke. I’m sorry anyway though. I thought you’d be friends until the end.”

I wave my phone his way. “Well, I have his number now, so there’s still hope.”

“You boys were made for each other.”

That sentence hits harder than it should. There’s something about being with Hawke that feels different than being with anyone else. Even today, through the awkward waves of the past, I could breathe. Relax. Be more honest than I’m used to being anymore.

I dumped a lot of shit on Hawke, and he didn’t flinch, not even when I admitted to what a manipulative little shithead I was.

So, yeah, in hindsight, I’m glad we had the time apart, even if it will never not hurt.

This time, I can refocus on building a healthy friendship and not fixating on the heated way he checked me out as I left the water.

After cooking dinner, watching a movie, and making sure Dad gets to bed okay, I flop back onto my bed, still not able to shift my grin. I never believed he’d forgive me or give me a second chance, and the fact that it feels like it’s happening has my limbs all floaty.

I don’t know how long I lie there in the dark, but I can’t switch my brain off. I keep replaying moments from today over and over—from when Hawke stormed into the ice complex to when he was happy and relaxed, floating down the river.

It’s possibly the most happy and relaxed I’ve been as well.

When it’s clear I’m not going to sleep anytime soon, I kick out of bed and go hunting for a past yearbook. I know I kept them, but fucked if I know where I stashed them all. Under my bed is a whole lot of dust, an old hockey stick, boxes of trading cards, and a wad of paperwork I probably thought was important at one point but can definitely be recycled now.

I drop onto my ass, looking around at my cluttered room, remembering the rest of the house is as overwhelming and trying not to let that feeling of overwhelm hit me again.

It’s a result of having busy lives, and I can’t see that changing anytime soon.

Though … I suppose it’s not like I’m sleeping now.

I start under my bed, trying to keep the noise down so that I don’t wake up Dad. I breathe through the thick layer of dust invading my nostrils and make a pile for keeping, a pile for trash, and a pile to be donated. It’s a bit of a hit to the face how quickly the trash pile fills up.

It’s after one when I finally stumble on my yearbooks. They’re shoved all the way back in the top of my closet, and the corners of the box they’re packed inside are pulling apart.

There’s more dust, a few cobwebs, but when I open the first one, I’m immediately thrown back to high school.

Our team were really fucking good, and everyone was obsessed with Hawke. He smirks up from so many of the pages, everyone’s favorite hockey captain, and that didn’t change when we reached college.

But while he was everyone’s favorite, I was his.

For the first time, I’m able to enjoy the memories.

On a whim, I take a picture of one of the pages and open it in a photo editing app, where I crop his head and increase it to double the size.

Then I flick him the first message in years.