Puck, Pain & Promises

CHAPTER 10: The Ice

Eden...

My phone buzzed on the desk while I was reviewing notes for my next paper.

I picked it up and saw Jax's name. The message was short.

*Third part of the deal. You said you would help me pass. Come to one practice. You need to understand my world.*

I stared at the words for a long time. The rink. His space. His ice. I did not want to go. I had never been on skates in my life. The idea of showing up there and looking foolish made my stomach twist. But the contract was clear. I had agreed to this. I typed back slowly.

*When?*

His reply came fast.

*Wednesday at four. I will meet you at the main entrance.*

I put the phone down and looked at the wall. Part of me wanted to say no. Part of me knew I had already said yes the moment I signed that document. I texted him again.

*Okay.*

The next afternoon I stood outside the arena at four o'clock exactly. The building looked bigger in daylight. Cold air came off it like a warning. I pulled my coat tighter around me and waited.

Jax appeared a few minutes later. He wore his practice gear, hair still damp from an earlier session. He nodded at me. “You came.”

“I said I would.”

He held the door open. I stepped inside. The cold hit me immediately. It smelled like ice and rubber and something sharp I could not name. The lights were bright over the rink. The sound of skates cutting into ice echoed from somewhere inside.

I followed him down a corridor. My shoes felt too loud on the floor. We reached the boards and he stopped. “Watch first. Then we will see.”

I stood at the glass and watched him step onto the ice. He moved differently here. Faster. Surer. His body knew exactly what to do. He took hard laps around the rink, pushing himself. Every stride was powerful. Every turn was sharp. I could see the focus on his face. This was not just a game for him. This was survival.

He skated over to the boards after a few minutes. His breathing was steady. “Your turn.”

“I do not skate.”

“I know. I will teach you.”

He disappeared into the equipment room and came back with a pair of skates. He sat on the bench and motioned for me to sit beside him. I did. He knelt in front of me and laced the skates himself. His hands were careful. Strong. He pulled the laces tight but not too tight. “It matters how they are laced,” he said quietly. “Too loose and you fall. Too tight and you cannot move.”

I stood up slowly. The blades felt strange under my feet. I grabbed the boards immediately. Jax stepped onto the ice first and held out both hands. “Look at me. Not the ice.”

I looked at him. His eyes were steady. I took his hands and stepped onto the ice. My feet slid out from under me right away. I fell forward. He caught me. His hands went to my waist. Strong and steady. He held me upright until I found my balance again.

“Again,” he said.

We did it over and over. I fell. He caught me. I got a little better each time. After forty minutes I could make it from the boards to the blue line without grabbing him. My legs burned. My ankles ached. But I was moving.

We stopped at center ice. The rink was quiet around us. The lights above us felt far away. I looked at the empty seats and the dark boards. “It is quieter than I expected.”

Jax stood beside me. He looked up at the lights. “It is the only quiet I have ever trusted.”

I turned to look at him. His face was open in a way I had not seen before. Almost young. Unguarded. He did not say anything else. We stood there in the middle of the ice and let the silence hold us. For the first time in a long time I felt like I did not have to perform. I did not have to be perfect. I could just be here. With him.

After we returned the skates he carried my bag without asking. I walked beside him toward the exit. My legs were shaky on solid ground. I looked at him. “Thank you for not laughing.”

He looked genuinely confused. “Why would I laugh?”

I thought about all the times people had laughed at me for being bad at something. My parents when I first tried sports. Riley when I tried to join him at the gym. Teachers when I struggled with something outside my strengths. “I do not know,” I said. “People usually do.”

He shook his head. “I do not laugh at people who are trying.”

He said it like it was the simplest thing in the world. I nodded. I walked away from the arena with the cold still in my hair and the memory of his hands steady on my waist. I was already thinking about the next session. I was angry at myself for how much I wanted it.

I kept walking and tried not to smile