Todos os capítulos de Breaking The Ice Between Us : Capítulo 131 - Capítulo 140

The locker room felt a little colder without James.Not temperature-wise—just… empty.Quiet in a weird way.Normally, I’d find him already half-dressed, chirping about someone’s hair, or groaning dramatically about some sore muscle like he wasn’t twenty and invincible.But this morning, the bench beside mine was bare. His duffel bag wasn’t dumped on the floor like usual. No hoodie tossed over the hooks. No signs of James at all.I sat down anyway, like muscle memory had guided me to my usual spot. Reached into my bag and started pulling out gear, trying not to think about how off it all felt.He was probably already at the airport.Chicago.I probably should’ve called. Told him to travel safe. Asked if he packed enough socks or made sure his AirPods were charged. Something stupid and brotherly like that.I sighed and shoved one leg into my compression shorts.I grabbed my phone from my duffel and stared at the screen. No new texts. No missed calls. I hesitated, thumb hovering over his

I should’ve known something was off. Not just with the silence—James going dark for more than a day was unusual, sure, but not unheard of. He got distracted easily, and I figured maybe he’d landed, got caught up with friends or family, or just crashed hard from the trip. He wasn’t exactly the “check-in” type when he was on the move. But the locker room had been weird. It wasn’t just the awkward energy from earlier—when that guy asked about Andrew and I shut him down before he could finish whatever smug little thought he was building. There was something else. Something under the surface. A tension in the way guys moved. The way conversations cut off when I walked by. Even Coach had barely looked me in the eye when he gave instructions today. I chalked it up to nerves. Or jealousy. Or maybe people finally catching on to the fact that I was spending too much time with a freshman I used to hate and now... didn’t. Me being openly soft toward someone I’d once treated like a ghost i

ANDREW~Traffic was crawling. One of those late afternoon drags where the sun feels hotter than it should, the AC in your car isn’t doing enough, and every little sound—the honk of a horn, the whir of a passing bike, the muffled bass of someone’s speaker system—sets your teeth on edge.It didn’t help that my entire body still felt like it had been thrown against a wall. Or several. Multiple times.Captain didn’t text.Didn’t say bye.Didn’t wait after practice. He just… left.No nod. No look. No “see you later” or “I’ll call you.” Nothing.And I told myself not to care. Told myself it was fine. That maybe he had somewhere to be. Maybe he didn’t want to be seen leaving with me again. Maybe I should be relieved that he didn’t try anything too obvious.But I wasn’t relieved.I was just… tired.The ache wasn’t just in my muscles—it was in my chest. Something dull and bitter and a little stupid, like I’d let myself hope too much again.My palms were tight on the wheel as I finally pul

“Oh… yeah,” I said quickly, stepping aside awkwardly as if I’d been caught eavesdropping—which, okay, technically I had. “I’m his sister,” she informed me, nodding toward the bed where James was still chatting like he hadn’t just been hospitalized. “You a friend?” I blinked. “Uh… yeah. Sort of.” Sort of? God, what did that even mean? Her eyes narrowed, just a little. Not in a suspicious way—more like she was assessing me. Like she was used to reading people the same way James probably read plays on the ice. “You one of his teammates?” she asked. “No, I—” I rubbed the back of my neck. “I know… Captain. I’m here for him.” “Oh,” she said, her expression changing. “You’re that kind of friend.” I didn’t know how to respond to that. I felt my face go warm. “I brought coffee,” I mumbled, holding up the bag like it was proof of my intentions. “Figured… they’d need it.” She smiled. “That’s sweet.” “Yeah,” I breathed out, looking toward the door again. Captain hadn’t not

JAMES ~How do you know if someone grows up in an abusive household?I remember typing that exact question on my sister’s ancient, beat-up laptop when I was twelve. The screen had a crack through the bottom right corner, and half the keys were faded from years of rage-typing essays and yelling at friends online. I’d sat in her room—no, hid there—my knees pulled tight to my chest, blood slowly dripping from the corner of my lips onto her Hello Kitty bedsheet. My hands shook like hell from the impact of the hits, and my whole body trembled in that weird way when you're trying really hard not to cry but the pain keeps reminding you you’re not made of stone.Hits delivered straight from the hands of my father. The man with the strongest arms I’d ever known and the weakest sense of love.The question I typed stared back at me on Google like it had its own judgment to pass. ‘How do you know if someone grows up in an abusive household?’ I remember squinting through a swollen eye, trying to