Thin Ice Between Us
Marysol Jamesstanding there menacingly
That’s somehow worse than being ignored outright.
When training finally ends, leaving me sweat-soaked and raw, I catch sight of him at the boards, taking off his gloves and helmet with unhurried precision, his blond hair curled over his forehead. The sight does something unpleasant to my focus, my gaze tracking the flex of his hands as they brush back his damp hair before I can stop myself. Someone nearby says his name – Locke – and it lodges in my head without permission. That’s when he looks at me.
Our eyes meet across the crowded rink, and for a split second the air feels thick, charged with something that I don’t have the words for. Then he smirks – quick, sharp, irritating – and turns a
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