Page 97 of Breaking the Ice

“That’s really hard. How are you feeling now?” Vanessa asks.

I shrug. “I’m not sure. I talked about it with my mom and she helped me find some perspective. It’s still hard not to feel abandoned for hockey, though.”

Ariana frowns and nods. “The whole thing sucks. How was the hockey game?”

Her words hit me like a punch to the chest. I’ve been so focused on me, I forgot to consider Evan.

I clear my throat. “Really good, actually. Evan played well, and they won.”

A smile spreads across Vanessa’s face, making her look like an angelic flower child. “Then it all worked out in the end. Still sorry you had to go through all that, though.”

Has it worked out okay? Not really—not yet. But maybe this doesn’t have to be the end. He apologized and has done so much to make it up to me. I’m fine, and my car is going to be fine, too. Maybe I need to stop holding it against him. It doesn’t mean I trust him to put me first, but being angry about it is exhausting. Letting go of it would be best for me.

We chat for a while longer, catching up and soaking in time together. It’s weird, knowing that I won’t get to see them regularly like this in a few months.

But maybe I can go to Nashville and visit. Maybe even bring Evan and make new memories to override the ending of our trip.

Hope buoys up inside me as we leave Starbucks and go our separate ways. I walk back to our apartment, inhaling the spring air—cool but with a hint of coming warmth. It’s still light out, and buds are forming on the trees. The grass is less brown, and daffodils peek up through mulched beds along the sidewalk. There’s the scent of new beginnings. Possibilities linger on the horizon with the rays of the sun.

Vanessa’s right. Evan and I hit a bump on the road, but that doesn’t mean things are over. I didn’t tell him how I feel, but I still can. We’ve avoided talking about specifics of our future, but that stops now. I might still be scared, but I can be brave, too. Evan deserves to have all the information before he—before we—make decisions.

“This is not the end,” I whisper, bolstering myself as I unlock the door to our place. “It’s only just beginning.”

“Evan,” I call out. “Can we talk?”

But silence rings out. Our studio is empty.

Chapter

Forty-Seven

EVAN

I ease open the locker room door, my sneakers letting out a piercing squeak on the shiny linoleum. I wince, but it’s late and practice ended hours ago. There’s no one around to notice.

I should be at home, refining my lesson plans for tomorrow or getting some sleep. But my mind can’t turn off, can’t focus on the right thing. I keep replaying a conversation I overheard at school today.

Was I eavesdropping as I stood outside the music classroom, hoping to arrange an “accidental” run-in with Isabella?

Shamelessly.

But I heard her confess to her supervising teacher that she is overwhelmed with the upcoming spring concert. She doesn’t have enough faculty support and isn’t sure they can pull it off. My heart plummeted when, instead of finding encouraging words or a solution, Mrs. VanLoo explained that this happens a lot, and they’ve had to cancel performances before because of it.

This concert is part of Isabella’s portfolio and final grade, though. I can’t let her down, can’t let her fail. I need to show her that I can be there for her, that I’m the kind of guy who steps up and helps out.

But the spring concert is Friday night, and I have a hockey game. No matter what I do, I’m a disappointment to someone. I can’t win.

The blinds are drawn, but the light is on in the coaching office, spilling out into the rest of the locker room. Bouchard usually stays late on Mondays, and he’s a reasonable guy. It hasn’t been that long since he was on the ice. Maybe he can give me some advice and help me untangle the mess that is my personal life.

I rap my knuckles on the wooden door, pushing it open when a stern “Come in,” is uttered.

But it’s not Bouchard behind the desk. Coach Russell’s eyes widen, and he leans back in his chair. Should I turn tail and run? Grow a pair and confront him? No idea. I’m frozen in place, debating with myself, when he points to the chair in front of him.

“Have a seat. We should talk.”

Are there any worse words in the English language? Probably, but these are up there on the list of top ten soul-crushing pronouncements.

Steeling myself for whatever hell is to come, I sit, perching on the unyielding wooden surface.