Icebreaker: Chapter 14

SOMETIMES I DON’T USE the brain I’ve been given.

It’s embarrassing, and I’m going to own up and say I deserve the round of silent treatment coming my way.

I’m a fucking douchebag. Possibly the biggest douchebag that’s ever existed. What kind of person has a woman under them, a woman they’ve been dreaming about for weeks, and tells them that they don’t want to fuck them when she’s asking for a condom.

I couldn’t have picked a more vulnerable time to reject her; I didn’t even mean to. I hope she understands that. Even if she does, I still hurt her, even with the best of intentions.

I was just drunk and jealous after she tried to get into my bedroom with Ryan’s code. I’ve fucked everything up because I was petty.

Great work, Hawkins.

I wanted to show her I don’t only want her when I’m drunk, I want her all the time. I like her spark, and I want to get to know her, but I well and truly fumbled the bag.

I only realized she wasn’t there when I rolled over, half-asleep, to wrap my arms around her. She’d obviously waited until I’d fallen asleep, not that I blame her.

Since I woke up, I’ve been calling her, but her phone is going straight to her voice mail. She only gave me her number last night and I practically died of shock. After she came, she was cute and sleepy and docile, curled up on my lap, babbling nonsense, asking me lots of questions, and looking up at me with her big, blue eyes.

I grabbed my phone from my pocket to check the time, and she muttered about not putting it in her eye line so she didn’t see all the nudes I get sent. I unlocked it and handed it to her, telling her to enjoy herself, and she went to contacts and typed in her number.

“What should I save me as?”

“Your name is usually a good place to start,” I teased.

She giggled away, tapping her nails on the back of my phone. “Mhmm. That’s boring…I want to be…slut from the Uber…No, that’s a little long. Uber Slut. Perfect.”

I couldn’t help the snort. “You can’t be serious, Anastasia,” I challenged, but she was already tapping away happily.

So now, I’m stuck trying to get hold of Uber Slut.

The last thing I fucking need is her thinking I’m calling her a slut.

After staring at my bedroom ceiling for an hour and receiving zero calls and texts, I finally drag myself out of bed.

JJ, Robbie, and Sabrina are eating in the kitchen when I finally make it downstairs, they look like hungover pieces of shit, but they’re all laughing. Well, until I appear and then Sabrina’s eyes narrow. “Bed cold, Hawkins?”

Dragging my hand down my face, I awkwardly shuffle toward them. I lean my elbows across the kitchen island and prepare myself for the torture. “I know, Brin, I know. How do you know so quickly? You haven’t even been home yet.”

“Because we saw her trying to sneak out of here in your T-shirt an hour after you two snuck upstairs.”

For once, JJ and Robbie aren’t saying a word; they’re staring into the cereal bowls like it’s the most exciting thing they’ve ever seen. “I’ve been calling her, but she’s not answering. What’s your apartment number? I’ll drive over there.”

“Have you taken too many hits to the head, hockey boy? She’s upstairs.” She picks up her mug of coffee and brings it to her lips, still glowering at me over the rim. “I wasn’t going to let her get into an Uber drunk and sad wearing just a T-shirt. She slept in Henry’s room.”

“And where did Henry sleep?” I ask as calmly as I can manage.

“I dunno, probably snuggled up next to her.” Her smile is huge, borderline sinister. “They haven’t come down yet. You know what they say about men in the morning being glorious. He’s so sweet and kind, it’s always the quiet ones, y’know? Henry will treat her real good.”

I can still hear her cackling laugh when I’m halfway up the stairs, definitely too hungover to be running anywhere. “You’re not funny, Brin!”

Henry’s room is next to mine, so the fact I haven’t heard a peep is a good sign. I knock on the door and wait for someone to tell me to come in. Now I’m standing outside the door, I can hear her laughing, I knock again, but nobody answers.

Fuck it.

Four zeros because Henry is too scared of being locked out of his room and not being able to get any of his things.

She’s under the covers, bare face, wet hair, with a coffee mug between her hands. She’s chuckling away at something Henry was saying, but when she spots me, her face drops a little before forcing a smile.

Much to my delight, Henry is sitting on a half-inflated air mattress on the floor. He looks between the two of us and stands. “I’m going to get some breakfast.”

He shuffles past me awkwardly, and when I can hear him on the stairs, I step into the room and sit at the bottom of the bed. She sits up and rests against the headboard. She’s still wearing my T-shirt, and fuck me, she’s beautiful. “Stassie, I’m sorry.”

She gives the same forced smile. “You don’t need to apologize to me, Nathan. You’re allowed to withdraw consent at any time. I’d never, ever be mad at your for changing your mind.” She takes a deep breath, leaning to put her mug on the bedside table. “I jus—”

“Stas, stop,” I interrupt, inching closer to her. “I’m so glad you know that, and you’re right, but it’s not the case here. I wasn’t withdrawing anything, I was just jealous.” God, I feel shit admitting this. “I thought if we had sex, you’d wake up this morning and disappear. I hate you being mad at me, and every time I seem to break into the icy fucking fortress you put up, something happens, and I’m back to square one.”

She listens to everything I say: no arguing, no eye rolls, no sass. “I struggle with rejection,” she says softly. “I’ve never been any good at it, even as a little kid. I felt rejected and overwhelmed last night, I only wanted to hook up, and you started talking about not sharing me.”

She shuffles on the bed, fiddling with the ends of her hair, and I can tell this is uncomfortable for her. “I feel like you want a relationship or something more than I’m offering. I’m really attracted to you, Nate, but we hardly know each other. I’m sorry for leaving. I just didn’t like it, and it made me want to get away from the situation.”

She’s right. I like her and I haven’t even considered what she wants. “I like that you know how to share your feelings.”

She snorts and brings her knees to her chest, pulling my T-shirt over them to hug herself tightly. “I’ve had so much fucking therapy. It’s taken years for me to say, ‘I struggle with rejection.’ Dr. Andrews will be so happy I managed to apply it to real-life situations.”

“You can be his star patient. Listen, I’m sorry you felt rejected. That wasn’t my intention.”

“This is so fucking awkward. I wanted to ride your dick, Nathan, not cause drama. I need to be honest, I’m not into the whole exclusive thing. I don’t like the commitment. I don’t have the time. My schedule is full as it is.”

She couldn’t be more direct and clear. I don’t like any of it, other than the bit where she said she wanted to ride my dick because I’d like that, but I can’t fault her for not communicating. “I hear you, Allen, loud and clear. Commitmentphobe, gotcha. For the record, now we’re on the same page, you can ride my dick anytime you want.”

“Oh, Nate,” she coos in the cutest and most patronizing way possible, shooting me a smile that goes ear to ear. “I’m not drunk anymore. You’re back on my shit list, buddy. I’ll consider taking you off it when you give me my rink back.”

“I thought it was probation? When did it become a shit list? Am I at least at the top of the list? Am I number one?”

“You’re definitely number one.”

BEING number one on Stassie’s shit list is the easiest job I’ve ever had.

We’ve trained before her and Aaron every day this week because of some shit Brady’s got them doing to learn from their mistakes at regionals.

The problem is that every day this week, we’ve started late and finished late because of some rant Faulkner has been on. She’s been standing silently seething with her arms crossed tightly across her chest, trying to murder me with her eyes.

“Stassie…” I’d try as I got off the ice and would have to walk past her.

“Don’t even start, Nathan, not unless you want me to beat you with your hockey stick.” She’d say it so calmly, it was even more terrifying than if she was screaming, and goose bumps would spread all over my body.

Yesterday, we were busy winning our game in San Diego, so she had the rink to herself, but today I don’t think I will get out of here in one piece. I can see her in my peripheral vision as I move up and down the rink. She’s wearing a baby blue outfit today; the soft and delicate color feels weirdly unsuitable for someone so full of rage.

While I can’t see her body, I’d put money on it clinging to her every curve, so at least it’ll be the last thing I see when she murders me.

I spot her arguing with Aaron, which pleases me more than it should but distracts me enough for JJ to bash into me, sending me flying into the boards. “Pay attention, dickhead.”

Looking up at the clock, I know we’re a good fifteen minutes over. Faulkner has said we don’t stop until he says so, and as long as Brady isn’t stood tapping her foot impatiently, he’s prepared to push his luck.

Every muscle is aching since he’s working us like we’re navy fucking seals and w—

What the fuck is she doing?

She’s skating into the middle of the rink with a look of sheer determination on her face, and she looks li—is she starting her fucking routine? She’s going to get flattened.

Where the fuck is Aaron or Brady?

“Stassie, get off the ice!” She doesn’t even look at me, she just holds up her middle finger and carries on as the guys skate around her.

Bobby skates up beside me. “She’s going to get hurt, Cap. You gotta do something.”

She’s floating around the rink between the guys, and I feel like I’m trying to catch a fucking butterfly. A vision in blue spinning and gliding, unfazed by the danger she’s in. Half the guys haven’t even spotted her, so they haven’t slowed down, and embarrassingly, I’m struggling to catch up to her.

Captain of the hockey team and I can’t keep up with a five-foot-four figure skater—I’m never going to live this down.

She finally slows down to do some fancy spinning shit, and I close the gap, scooping her up over my shoulder, ignoring her squeal of horror. Her fists bang against my back, and it’s a good day to be wearing protective equipment.

I haven’t even said a word, but she knows it’s me. “Nate Hawkins, put me down, now!”

My hand is gripping the back of her thigh to keep her in place; I give it a squeeze. “Shut up, Anastasia. Are you trying to get yourself another head injury?”

She’s trying to wriggle off, but my grip is too tight, so all she can do is hit at me, and frankly, I’ve had worse. “Stop. Telling. Me. To. Shut. Up! Put me down, Nathan!” The anger is seeping through into every syllable, and I know I’m in for it as soon as I put her down.

There are practically flames in her eyes when I place her back on the ground behind the boards where she’ll be safe, her cheeks are flushed red, fists clutching at her sides.

Her hands fly to her hair, fingers linking together as she shakes her head exasperated, chest heaving. I’m trying to concentrate on her anger, not her tits, but it’s hard. “Anas—”

“If you ever,” her eyes lock with mine, and I’m frozen on the spot, her voice dangerously low, “ever, touch me again, Nathan Hawkins, I will make sure the only job you can ever get on ice is a Zamboni driver. Understood?”

I bite my tongue because, fuck, I want to kiss her so bad right now. Her hands have moved to her hips, and she’s so fucking hot when she’s mad at me. “Understood.”

“You’re overrunning and you’re fucking up my schedule. I have plans tonight, and I’m going to be late if you don’t get off the freaking ice and let me practice!”

“What are your plans?”

She huffs, crossing her arms across her chest. “Nothing you need to be involved in.”

“Hawkins!” Coach shouts, pulling my attention back to the ice. “Finish up!”

I take one last look at her. “You look beautiful today.”

Her mouth opens and closes, most definitely not expecting that. The anger in her face begins to dissolve, her eyes soften, and almost like magic, a split second passes, and it all disappears. “Oh fuck off, Nathan!” she shouts, stomping away from me.

I FEEL like a detective trying to work out where she’s going tonight.

“Stalker is the word the cops would use, Nate,” Henry informs me from the other side of the room. I wouldn’t even put it past him to know where she’s going, he probably asked, and she told him. That’s how shit works with them two, isn’t it?

I pull out my phone and hope she takes pity on me now she’s tired from practice.

Anastasia has an affinity for using my own words against me, but now she’s given me the perfect incentive to find her.

Shit.

Henry is right; I sound like a stalker.