Ice Between Us

Holding it together

"Jerk."

The word chased her out of my room before the front door slammed shut behind her.

I scoffed.

Jerk?

Please.

I'm a jock. There's a difference.

Five minutes ago, she was perfectly happy in my bed. Now she's mad because I wasn't interested in turning a one-night thing into a relationship.

I dragged my naked self into the bathroom.

By the time I came back out, the apartment was still the same – empty.

And annoyingly quiet.

I hated that.

That was the whole reason I wanted to get a new roommate in the first place.

The silence had a way of driving me almost insane.

I was on my way to grab the phone I'd abandoned on the dining table when I heard the front door unlocking.

Finally.

My new roommate.

I paused.

Still naked.

Running back to my room now would make me look guilty.

Not running back would make me look insane.

Before I could decide which was worse, the door swung open.

I expected a guy.

Maybe some awkward college kid with too many boxes and not enough personality.

Instead, a woman stepped inside.

A pretty Black woman.

We stared at each other.

She looked confused.

I was confused.

When Kenya first moved in, I was convinced we'd spend the rest of the semester getting on each other's nerves.

Turns out, getting on her nerves was actually kind of fun.

Unfortunately for me, she seemed to have discovered that making rules for my life was fun too.

"What are you saying?" I asked.

She held up a piece of paper like it was some official government document.

"I didn't know you played sports."

I raised an eyebrow.

"You didn't know I was captain of the hockey team?"

"No."

I wasn't sure whether to be offended or impressed.

"And now that I do, I need to add another rule."

Another rule?

As if the first hundred weren't enough.

"The ones we already have?" I asked.

"The ones we agreed on."

"The ones you forced on me."

She ignored that.

I should've known she would.

"What is this new rule?" I asked.

She cleared her throat dramatically.

"You are not allowed to bring girls here without informing me first."

I blinked.

Then blinked again.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"If you're planning on bringing someone over, you should tell me beforehand so we can make arrangements."

"Arrangements?"

"On where I'll be."

I stared at her.

She stared right back.

Completely serious.

"So now I need your permission to have a social life?"

"It's not permission. It's consideration."

"Sounds suspiciously like permission."

She rolled her eyes.

"Imagine one of your jock fangirls finds out I live with you. I don't need random girls showing up here to make my life miserable."

I laughed.

"No one's going to bully you."

"Prevention is better than cure."

Before I could argue, she marched over to the fridge and stuck the paper on it.

Just like that.

No discussion.

No negotiation.

No voting process.

Nothing.

She slapped a brand-new rule onto the fridge like she owned the place and head to her room.

The ridiculous thing?

I wasn't even sure why I wasn't arguing.

I disagreed with at least half the things on that paper.

Maybe more.

But in just this short time, every time Kenya decided something, and somehow I just went along with it.

And honestly?

That was starting to worry me.

Especially with the match against Kingswell coming up… and the panic attacks getting worse.

My grades too.

I couldn’t afford to slip.

Not with my father watching every move I made like it was some kind of performance review.

Nathan would’ve been proud of me if I kept everything under control.

At least… that’s what I told myself.

I knew something was wrong before practice even started.

It always started the same way.

That tight pull under my ribs.

That restless energy under my skin like I’d swallowed something I couldn’t get rid of.

The kind of feeling that made sitting still feel impossible.

Thinking feel worse.

I sat on the locker room bench, lacing my skates while the team laughed and talked around me.

Their voices blended into noise I couldn’t hold onto.

“Yo, Holloway, you good?” Adrian asked.

My best friend. Or the closest thing I had to one.

“Yeah,” I said quickly. “I’m good.”

Someone cracked a joke behind me.

The whole room burst into laughter.

I didn’t even catch what it was about.

My eyes stayed on my hands.

Just keep them steady.

Just focus.

“Are you sure, man?” Cole asked, tightening his laces beside me.

“I said I’m good,” I repeated, forcing a smile.

My fingers tightened around my skates.

That’s when I saw it again.

The scars across my knuckles.

Faint.

Old.

Like they belonged to someone else, but somehow still felt like mine.

My chest tightened instantly.

No.

Not now.

Please.

Not here.

Not again.

Just practice.

Get through practice.

Then I’ll deal with whatever this is.

That’s what I always told myself.

Same lie.

Different day.

And it never got easier to believe.

The first fifteen minutes were always the dangerous part.

Too easy.

Too calm.

That’s when it usually started.

I cut through the puck drills clean—stickhandling sharp, movements controlled, almost automatic.

“Holloway, that’s it!” Coach called.

A few teammates clapped.

I gave a quick nod like everything was fine.

Like my heart wasn’t already starting to run ahead of me.

Just slightly too fast.

Then the full-ice drills began.

The whistle blew.

Everything changed at once.

Noise. Movement. Skates carving across ice.

Bodies crossing my vision from every direction.

Puck.

Stick.

Turn.

Pass.

Simple.

Familiar.

Mine.

I could do this in my sleep.

I had done it worse before.

But halfway through the drill, my breathing started slipping out of rhythm.

In.

Too shallow.

Out.

Too quick.

I swallowed hard and kept going anyway.

A flicker of dizziness brushed the edges of my focus.

Not enough to stop me.

But enough to make me aware.

Don’t think about it.

That was always the mistake.

Because now I was thinking about it.

And that was the problem.

My heartbeat wasn’t racing.

Not enough for anyone else to notice.

But I could hear it.

Too loud.

Too present.

Coach shouted something from the bench.

I caught only fragments of it.

The rest blurred into noise.

My grip tightened around my stick without me meaning to.

Too tight.

I loosened it fast.

Fix it. Keep going.

I’m fine.

I’m fine.

I’m—

A puck deflected off a skate and shot toward me.

Instinct took over.

Clean stop.

Controlled pass.

Perfect.

But right after, something in my chest tightened.

A delayed reaction.

Like my body had moved first…

and my mind was just catching up.