Ice And Ink(B x B)

Chapter Ten: Shadows on the Ice

      Wednesday night draped Rivermount in a quiet chill, the snow slowing to a lazy drift as the town hunkered down against the cold.
      The high school rink glowed like a beacon, its lights cutting through the dusk, and Jace Calder carved through the ice, his skates a steady heartbeat against the boards.
      Practice was optional tonight—Coach Hargrove had given the Wolves a breather after the Cougars win—but Jace couldn’t stay away. The ice was his refuge, a place to burn off the restless buzz that had dogged him since Monday—Ezra’s you’re not what I thought looping in his head, sharp and unplaceable.

    He was alone, the team scattered, the rink empty except for the hum of the Zamboni idling in the distance.
      His breath fogged in the air as he ran drills—crossovers, slapshots, tight turns—pushing harder with every lap.

  
The Cougars game had been a high, Ezra’s post a jolt, and that truck ride—more than flash—had cracked something open he didn’t know how to close. He fired a puck at the net, the slap echoing, and grinned as it hit dead center. Control. He had it now, and he’d keep it.

     Across town, Ezra Tate paced his room, the Leafs poster above his desk blurring as he moved.

     His laptop glowed with Tate’s Take—comments still trickling in from the Cougars post, a mix of praise and jabs—and he’d shut it off, restless.

    School had been a gauntlet today—whispers about his “fanboy” status, Ty’s relentless teasing—but Jace’s quiet fair in the truck had stuck with him, a splinter he couldn’t pull.

      He grabbed his old skates from the corner, the laces frayed, blades dull, and stared at them. He hadn’t skated—really skated—since the injury, but tonight, the itch was unbearable.

      He stuffed them in his bag, pulled on his parka, and biked to the rink, the cold biting his face.
      The auxiliary ice was open late, free skate for whoever showed, and he figured he’d glide a few laps, shake off the noise. He didn’t expect to see Jace’s truck in the lot, parked crooked under a flickering light, and his stomach flipped, a mix of dread and something sharper.

     Inside, the rink was quiet, the main ice empty—except for Jace, a lone figure cutting through the center, stick in hand.

   Ezra froze by the boards, watching through the glass. Jace moved like he owned it—fast, fluid, every shot a crack of thunder—and Ezra’s breath caught, a pang of old longing twisting his chest.

    He hadn’t seen Jace like this, unguarded, just him and the ice. It was… something.

   Jace spotted him mid-turn, skidding to a stop, his grin flashing under the helmet.

“Tate? What the hell you doing here?”

  Ezra shrugged, clutching his bag tighter. “Needed air. Didn’t know you’d be hogging the place.”

   “Not hogging,” Jace said, skating over, leaning on the boards.

“Working. You stalking me now?”

“In your dreams,” Ezra shot back, but his voice lacked bite, and Jace’s grin widened, sharp and easy.

  “Got skates in there?” Jace nodded at the bag, eyebrow raised.

  Ezra hesitated, then nodded, slow. “Yeah. Haven’t used ‘em in a while.”

  Jace’s grin softened, curious. “Come on, then. Ice’s empty.”

   Ezra’s throat tightened, pride warring with the itch in his legs. “Not playing with you, Calder.”

  “Not asking you to,” Jace said, voice low.