I do not look at him when we step off the ice. If I do, I might see what almost happened, and that would make it too real. My skates click against the rubber flooring as I head for the bench. George is a shadow behind me, silent but too close.
In the locker room, I peel off my gloves and grab my water bottle. My hands are still shaking, though I tell myself it is from the drills, not from him.
“What’s your problem?” he asks finally.
The words are sharp enough to make me turn. “My problem?”
“You’ve been staring at the floor like it insulted you since we left the ice.”
“Maybe I’m just trying to avoid talking to you.”
His mouth tips into something halfway between a smirk and a frown. “Sure. That’s why you were fine skating with me ten minutes ago.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“Becau
