Morning Ice
Chris
He stirred awake on the couch to the sound of silence—not the uneasy kind, but the kind that wrapped around his frayed nerves like gauze. The room smelled faintly like lavender. Not his usual scent.
His eyes opened slowly. The blanket covering him was soft, unfamiliar, and warm. Not his either.
He sat up.
Anna.
The memory of the night before came rushing back, not in a blur, but in sharp, vivid beats: the phone call, her voice, the knock at the door, the way she’d come in without flinching. Without judgment.
They’d sat on opposite ends of the couch for a long time, both unsure of how close was too close.
He’d talked. Really talked.
She’d listened. Not the kind of listening people did when they were waiting to respond. Just real, grounded, solid presence. Like she wasn’t afraid of what he might say. Like she wanted to hear it all.
And then—nothing. No kiss. No lines crossed. Just him, drifting off, and her staying anyway.
He looked toward the kitchen. A glass sat in the sink. The throw pillow he’d tossed to the floor last week had been tucked back into place.
Then he saw the note.
Folded in half, neatly. Tucked beneath the remote.
> Didn’t want to wake you. You needed the sleep.
If you want to talk—really talk—I’ll be at the rink.
And maybe eat something that isn’t protein powder today? —A
His chest tightened.
He hadn’t realized how much he needed someone to say something that simple. That real.
He put the note in his wallet like a damn idiot. But he didn’t care. It was the first thing in weeks that felt worth keeping.
---
Anna
Her hand trembled slightly as she locked the staff room door behind her and slid into her office chair.
She didn’t regret last night. Not really.
She hadn’t stayed for too long. Hadn’t touched him, other than pulling the blanket over him when he fell asleep mid-sentence. He’d been vulnerable—exhausted in a way she recognized but rarely saw in men like him. Not the physical exhaustion of athletes, but the soul-deep kind that came from being misunderstood and pretending it didn’t hurt.
What had surprised her most wasn’t the pain in his words—it was the honesty.
And it had undone her.
No one had asked her how she’d been doing in a long time, and maybe that’s why she stayed. Because when she looked at him—when he opened up—it felt like they weren’t two broken people trying to fix each other.
They were just two people. Trying.
Still, she knew she’d crossed an invisible line. She could feel it like a bruise under the skin.
But she didn’t want to undo it.
She just didn’t know what came next.
---
Chris
Later that morning
He stepped onto the ice before practice, earlier than usual. A few of the trainers were setting up cones, and one of the strength coaches gave him a nod.
He skated hard—laps at first, then drills he didn’t need to run, just to feel the burn in his legs, the sting in his lungs.
Control the body, control the mind. At least that was the lie he told himself.
But it didn’t work.
Because every time he stopped for breath, every time he coasted past the glass, he half expected to see her. Watching. Judging. Or worse—caring.
And the truth was, he wanted her to be there. Not because he needed someone to fix him.
But because when she was there, he didn’t feel like a problem.
He felt like a person.
---
Anna
She almost didn’t go to the practice rink.
It felt like temptation. Like stepping back into something she hadn’t fully decided about.
But work was work. She had players to check in on. Concussion protocols to update. Staff meetings to prep for. And Chris—Chris, whether she liked it or not—was still technically under her care.
She told herself it was just another workday as she walked down the long corridor toward the ice.
But when she turned the corner and saw him alone out there, slicing sharp lines into the surface with determined, angry skates, she stopped.
He hadn’t seen her yet.
She watched him for a moment.
He was fast. Fluid. Strong. And yet, there was something about the way he moved that felt… jagged. Like he wasn’t skating for speed. He was skating to outrun something.
When he did see her, he slowed. Not all the way, just enough to let her know he’d noticed.
Then he nodded once. Quick. Subtle.
She returned it.
It was nothing.
And it was everything.
---
Chris
In the locker room after practice, someone had left a protein shake on his bench with a sticky note.
> Fuel better. Rink coffee doesn’t count. —A
He smirked. The smallest tug at the corner of his mouth.
He didn’t drink it. Not right away.
Instead, he stared at the message for a long time, feeling the weight of something building—quiet and slow and unmistakable.
---
Anna
That evening, she pulled out her journal. The one she hadn’t written in since the breakup with Jonah two years ago.
She flipped to a blank page. Picked up her pen.
> Today I broke a rule. Again.
But I also showed up. For someone who needed it. For someone who didn’t pretend not to.
He scares me. Not because he’s dangerous. Because he’s real.
And I’m not sure I’m ready to feel that again.
She closed the book.
Tomorrow, she’d see him again.
And the ice between them wouldn’t be frozen for long.