Iced Hearts And Half Time Kisses

Driver’s Silhouette

Knox Callahan strides out of Stonebridge High, his jaw clenched tight, the chilly night air slapping his face while he walks with both hands into his jacket pocket. The snow from earlier has thickened, blanketing the ground in a thin, crunchy layer that crumbles under his boots. The person outside the art room window wasn’t just a bystander, they were watching.

The thought twists in his gut, sharp and uneasy, but he shoves it down, refusing to let it take root. Well, for him, it was a good thing that he was distracted from going further with her there. If not, he won’t be able to get over her body. And if that happens, it means his focus on getting the NHL scholarship would be tampered with.

He can’t afford distractions, not now, not with his NHL scholarship hanging in the balance. His skates In one of his hands, clink softly against his hockey bag he held as he heads toward the rink across the street. The frost-coated steps leading to the ice crunch, a reminder to stay focused on his goals but focus is a traitor tonight.

The taste of Skye Emerson lingers on his lips, still warm, soft, and maddeningly vivid. This has never happened to him. Whenever he gets close to a girl as the golden boy, he moves on without remorse.

But the memory of her smooth p*ssy skin under her legs on his fingertips, the way she’d gasped when he’d touched her there, gnaws at him, urging him to turn back, to go back to her and devour her. But he doesn’t.

Reaching the rink, the rink is a cavern of cold, the air intensifying in its coldness. Knox laces up his skates, trying to drown out the echo of Skye’s breath against his mouth. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting harsh shadows of himself across the scratched-up ice. He steps onto the rink, the blades of the skate slicing clean lines as he glides, but his mind is a mess. That kiss in the art room, her hands clutching his hoodie, the way her body pressed against his, it’s a ghost that won’t leave him alone. He shakes his head, gripping his stick tighter, and forces himself to focus on the drills.

One bad game, one slip-up, and he’s done. No scholarship. No NHL. Just another kid from Stonebridge with nothing to show for it. And if that happens, he will be disappointed at himself due to the kind of family he came from.

Shortly, Coach Keller’s whistle cuts through as he said out loud, realizing how lost Knox looked while other players looked concentrated. “Callahan! Get your head in the game!” The man’s voice is gravelly, his eyes narrowed to slits as he leans against the boards, arms crossed. Knox meets his gaze, nodding sharply, but he feels the weight of those eyes boring into him, like Coach can see the chaos in his head.

Immediately, the team runs drills, the slap of pucks and the scrape of their stick filling the rink. Knox pushes himself harder, his legs burning as he weaves through cones, but his focus keeps slipping.

At the edge of his vision, just beyond the rink’s floodlights, he spots a tall figure leaning against the far wall. That was the same figure he had seen earlier but couldn’t figure out who it was. The shadows obscure the person’s face, but the way they stand, too focused on Knox sends a prickle down his spine. He blinks, refocusing on a pass, but the puck clips his glove and skitters away as he fell on the ice.

Cursing under his breath, he snaps his head back to the wall where the shadow stood but the figure’s gone. Vanished, like they were never there.

“Callahan, you deaf?” Coach barks again, skating over with a scowl. His graying beard twitches as he chews on a piece of gum, his clipboard tucked under one arm. “You’re moving like you forgot how to skate. What’s eating you?”

Knox wipes snow drop from his face, his breath puffing out in a white cloud. “Nothing, Coach. Just off tonight.” His voice is steady, but his grip on his stick tightens, betraying the lie. Coach grunts, unconvinced, but waves him off.

“Get it together. Scouts don’t care about your bad days.” He skates away, blowing his whistle to signal the next drill.

Knox grits his teeth, forcing his focus back to the ice. But the memory of that tall, shadowed figure watching still clings to him. Was it the same person from the art room? Laurel, maybe, with her jealous glares? But he doubted she’s the one because the figure had the shape of a man. Or someone else entirely? His stomach twists at it, but he shoves the thought aside. He can’t afford to care.

Practice drags on, each drill more grueling than the last. By the time it’s over, Knox’s legs hurt from the previous fall. In the locker room, the air is filled with the smell of damp gear and cheap body spray of the team players.

The other guys are loud, tossing insults and laughing as they chitchat, but Knox keeps to himself, peeling off his game pads. His mind is still on Skye.

He hadn’t seen her for hours as he wondered how she was and to know if she was home already. He wants to text her, make sure she got home safe, but his fingers hover over his phone, hesitating.

Showing much attention and letting her in means opening a door he’s kept locked for years. A storm he’s dodged since he was a kid, one that could swallow them both. He can’t risk it. The NHL is all that matters. Love? That’s for suckers. Being the playboy, the untouchable golden boy, that’s his armor, and he’s not about to shed it.

“Hey, man, you good?” Lucas Tate, his best friend, slaps a hand on Knox’s shoulder, his voice cutting through his thoughts. Lucas, who had been his best friend since freshman year, is all lean muscle and easy friendly and charming smile, his blond hair still damp from the shower. He’s got a reputation as bad as Knox’s Stonebridge’s other resident heartbreaker, the guy who flirts with every girl but never sticks around. Rumor has it he’s got a thing for Maya, Skye’s cousin but Lucas plays it cool, never making a move.

Everyone assumes he’s just another fuckboy, content to charm and ditch like Knox. But Knox knows better, Lucas’s eyes linger on Maya a little too long, his jokes a little too careful when she’s around. Still, Lucas keeps his distance, and Knox gets it.

Some things are safer left alone. Only Lucas understands Knox when something was wrong.

Knox shrugs, tossing his gloves into his bag. “Yeah, just tired. Fundraiser’s kicking my ass.” The lie feels heavy, but he sells it with a half-smirk, hoping Lucas buys it.

Lucas leans against the locker, crossing his arms, his eyes narrowing. “Bullshit. You’ve been off since you walked in. What’s up? Some chick got you twisted?” He grins, but there’s a knowing edge to it, like he’s fishing for something.

Knox snorts, zipping his bag with more force than necessary. “Nah, man. Just the usual grind. You know how it is.” He slings the bag over his shoulder, avoiding Lucas’s gaze. He wants to tell Lucas about the figure in the shadows, about the way Skye’s kiss is screwing with his head, but the words stick in his throat. Admitting it feels like weakness, and Knox Callahan doesn’t do weak.

Lucas tilts his head, studying him. “You sure? ‘Cause you look like someone ran over your dog.” He pauses, then lowers his voice. “Heard some of the guys talking. Said you and that Emerson girl were looking real cozy in the library. That true?”

Knox’s jaw tightens, his fingers curling into a fist. “People talk too much.” His voice is sharp, a warning, but Lucas just chuckles.

“Easy. Just asking.” Lucas raises his hands in mock surrender, but his grin fades. “Look, man, I know you. You don’t get rattled. So whatever’s got you like this, figure it out before it f***s up your game. Scouts are coming soon.”

Knox nods, his throat tight. “Yeah. I know.” He grabs his jacket, eager to escape the conversation. “Catch you tomorrow.”

Lucas calls after him, “Stay out of trouble, Callahan!” but Knox is already halfway out the door.

The parking lot is deserted, the snow falling heavier now, blanketing the asphalt in a soft white glow. The streetlights cast long, eerie shadows, and the air bites at Knox as he walks.

His breath clouds in front of him as he adjusts his bag, his boots crunching against the frost. But as he steps toward his truck, headlights from a coming vehicle flare at him, slicing through the darkness. Knox freezes, his heart kicking up a notch as he struggles with his vision. The beams are blinding, pinning him in place as he squints, trying to make out the car, but the light is too harsh, the driver’s silhouette a dark, indistinct shape behind the wheel.