Page 43 of Fractured Ice

We're doing fine at this. It's almost normal.

Then two women appear at the edge of the table. They have the specific body language of people who've spotted someone they came over to talk to. One of them is looking at Jace. The other one is looking at Ethan.

“Hi guys!”

Neither man looks at them.

Jace barely glances up. "Hey." He says it pleasantly, and then his arm around Rory tightens just slightly, and anyone with functional social perception can read the room.

“So, uh, you guys play hockey?” the other one asks.

“Yeah, with my girlfriend rooting me on at every game,” Jace says dryly, grabbing a sip of his soda.

The woman looks disappointed, then moves on, her gaze focused on Ethan. “Maybe you want to hang out or something?”

Ethan leans back in the booth. It's a casual movement. And then his arm comes up along the back of the seat, along the back of my seat, not touching me, just there, and he looks at the woman who'd been focused on him and says, "I've already got the company I want tonight. But thanks."

She smiles, a little uncertainly, and both women move back toward the main crowd.

I look at my fries.

I eat one.

I eat another one.

Ethan drops his arm back to his side like it was nothing and picks up his menu.

"What are you getting?" he asks me.

"This," I say, gesturing to my food.

He winces. "Right."

The conversation moves to hockey eventually, and this is where the evening shifts. Jace and Ethan start breaking down the game with Rory asking questions that reveal just how deeply she understands it, and I'm watching Ethan talk about a play in the third period and there's no performance in it at all. He's not trying to be charming or funny or impressive. He's just talking about something he loves.

"The thing about tonight," he says, "is the ice was perfect. Like, you can feel it when it's right. Everything's crisper. Your edges catch exactly where you expect them to. And when the ice is right and the guys are locked in, it feels like—" He stops, working out how to say it. "It feels like everyone on the ice knows what everyone else is about to do before they do it. And you're just in it. There's nothing else."

I've already got my notebook out. He sees it.

"Sorry," I say. "Keep going."

"You're taking notes… while you eat."

"I like hearing you talk about hockey." I don't look up from the page. The words come out simply and I only realize how they sounded after they're already out there.

Ethan doesn't say anything for a second. I glance up and find him looking unexpectedly flustered. Confident, easy Ethan Walker seems completely at a loss for what to do with a compliment.

It's unexpectedly difficult to look away from.

My phone lights up on the table. Dylan Reed.

I look at it and then at Ethan, who's already seen the name, whose expression falls, and I say, "Excuse me," and he hesitates before sliding out of the booth to let me by.

Outside, the cool air is sharp against my skin as I step away from the restaurant and answer the call.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Sienna. It's Dylan Reed."