The Ice Between Us

Chapter 13 -Evan

I’ve been replaying that conversation with Lena for days. The way she stood there in the tunnel, nervous but trying to be brave. The way she thanked me, quiet, sincere, like she wasn’t sure she had the right to. The way her eyes kept flicking away from mine, like looking at me too long might burn. It was awkward. Painfully awkward. But it was also the first real conversation we’ve had in years. And now I can’t stop thinking about her.

I keep catching myself looking for her truck when I pull into the arena. I keep glancing toward the pond on my early mornings, wondering if she’s out there skating. I keep thinking about how small she looked in that lobby, surrounded by cameras and questions she didn’t deserve. I want to talk to her again. I want to start over. I want to know her again. But I have no idea how to do that without screwing it up. So when I see her in the parking lot a few days later, hair pulled back, bag slung over her shoulder, looking like she’s trying to blend into the pavement. I take it as a sign. A terrifying sign. I take a breath and walk toward her before I can talk myself out of it.

“Lena.”

She turns, startled, then relaxes a little when she sees it’s me. “Oh. Hi.”

I shove my hands in my pockets. Smooth. Real smooth. “Hey. Uh… I was wondering if you’d want to… maybe grab lunch sometime? Just to catch up.”

Her eyebrows lift, surprised. “Lunch?”

“Yeah.” I clear my throat. “Just lunch. Two old friends. No pressure.”

She hesitates, and for a second I think she’s going to say no. But then she gives a small, soft smile.

“I’d like that.”

Something loosens in my chest.

“Main Street Café?” I ask. “Tomorrow at one?”

She nods. “Okay. One works.”

We stand there for a moment, both unsure what to say next. Then she gives a little wave and heads to her car. I watch her go, feeling lighter than I have in months.

Until I notice Coach Daniels standing near the entrance, arms crossed, watching the whole thing. Great. He doesn’t say anything, but the look on his face is clear: Don’t hurt her. I nod once to show I get it. Because I do.

Practice is rough that day. My head’s not in it. Mason notices immediately.

When we’re finally done, we walk out to the parking lot together. He’s grinning like an i***t.

“So,” he says, bumping my shoulder, “you and Lena, huh?”

“It’s not a date,” I mutter.

“Sure it’s not.”

“It’s not,” I repeat. “We’re just catching up.”

“Right,” he says, dragging out the word. “Catching up. At a café. At one. Alone.”

I glare at him. “Shut up.”

He laughs. “Man, you’re so screwed.”

I unlock my truck and shake my head, but I can’t stop the smile tugging at my mouth.

The next day crawls by slower than any game day I’ve ever lived through. I wake up early, try to distract myself with a workout, fail, shower twice, and still end up pacing my apartment like a lunatic. It’s just lunch. Just catching up. Just two old friends. I keep telling myself that, but my stomach doesn’t believe it.

By twelve‑thirty, I can’t sit still anymore. I grab my jacket and head out, driving to Main Street Café way too early. I pick a table near the window, somewhere she’ll see me easily. My knee bounces under the table. I force it still.

I shouldn’t be this nervous.

But then the door opens, and she walks in. Hair down today, cheeks pink from the cold, eyes scanning the room until they land on me. She gives a small, hesitant smile, and something in my chest loosens and tightens at the same time. I stand automatically. “Hey.”

“Hi,” she says softly, stepping closer. “Sorry if I’m late.”

“You’re not,” I say quickly. “I was early.”

She laughs under her breath, and it’s quiet but real. God, I missed that sound.

We sit, and for a moment, neither of us knows what to do. The menus are already on the table, but neither of us reaches for them. The silence isn’t uncomfortable exactly, just… full.

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “This place hasn’t changed at all.”

“No,” I say. “It hasn’t.” I clear my throat. “I’m glad you came.”

“Me too,” she says, and her voice is honest enough that it hits me harder than it should.

A waitress comes by, breaking the moment. We order, coffee for her, iced tea for me, sandwiches we barely look at, and when she leaves, the quiet settles again.

Lena folds her hands on the table. “I… wanted to thank you again. For everything. The fan. The reporter. You didn’t have to do any of that.”

“I did,” I say before I can stop myself.

Her eyes lift to mine, surprised.

I swallow. “I mean… I wanted to. I wasn’t going to just stand there.”

She looks down at her hands, a small smile tugging at her mouth. “Still. Thank you.”

I nod, trying not to stare at her too hard. Trying not to think about how strange and familiar this feels at the same time.

Trying not to think about how badly I want this to go right.