Icebound (Boundless Players)

“And with three goals scored in the last period, the Guardians manage to pull off one of the biggest comebacks in NHL history, which is nothing short of a hockey miracle!” the announcer screams on the TV. “No one’s talking about Tremblay’s retirement now.”

“Holy shit, they did it!” I leap up from the bar stool, careful not to spill my virgin mojito. “Did you not see that, Gwen?”

My heart’s racing more than the time we went skydiving for my eighteenth birthday, which I did mostly to prove to myself I could. Never again. “Rhode’s not just the Wall of Steel. He’s the Great Wall of Steel.”

Gwen sips her martini. “Sorry, but that was an atrocious joke.”

“Really? I thought it was hilarious.”

After the game ends, Micah FaceTimes me again. Despite the celebration in the locker room, Rhode gives Micah the saltiest glare I’ve ever seen before he swiftly exits the screen. I have no idea what he’s so mad about because he played amazing.

“Hey, Phil,” Micah says. “Guess what? We played our best period this season with you watching, so you’re our good luck charm now. You know what that means, right?”

“No, what?”

He wiggles his dark brows. “You’re icebound.”

“What? Icebound?”

“Yeah. Means you’re bound by the rituals of the hockey gods like us, so you have to watch all our games. We need our good luck charm to keep winning.”

“You don’t need me. That was all you guys.”

I laugh at his over-the-top antics, but I can’t stop grinning. I don’t actually believe I’m their good luck charm, but who cares? Let people believe what they want.

After saying goodbye, Gwen and I leave the bar together. I don’t consider myself a die-hard Guardians fan by any means, but over the course of the next week, I start watching their games.

And I’m not alone.

Surprisingly, Gwen grabs the fancy wine from the fridge, and I boil some peppermint tea, and then we cheer from the living room. There’s still some resentment lingering between us, but every game, we drift closer and closer to each other on the couch.

By the time Friday rolls around, I’m actually excited to see the guys despite having trudged to Rhode’s luxury downtown high-rise in the dreary late February rain.

I normally don’t like being in new places because it’s overstimulating, but knowing an old familiar face will be there calms some of my nerves. Well, that and my anti-anxiety medication.

I knock on his apartment door. With a jolt, the gilded 72 suddenly swings open, and there’s Rhode, glaring down at me while gripping the doorframe like some brooding hockey god that just rolled out of bed. He’s wearing gray sweatpants hanging low, precariously low, on his hips, and he’s shirtless.

My jaw falls.

I blink to see if he disappears, but no, he’s still standing there with all those glorious muscles, a V on his hips that definitely leads to a naughty destination, and a dusting of silver speckled stubble across his thick pecs.

He’s got a hard body custom-made for dirty fantasies, and even though I run every morning, I can’t imagine the grueling workouts they go through daily to get that type of muscle definition.

He mutters a curse, lurching for a sweatshirt hanging on a rack and tugging it over his head. “Sorry. Thought it was the guys. I didn’t realize it was you.”

I watch him struggle to get it over his shoulders like he’s worried I’ll be offended by his nudity. “No need to put on a shirt for me. That six-pack is better than anything I’ve had to drink.”

He coughs, glancing away. “You shouldn’t be saying things like that to me, Nina. I’m too old for you.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yeah, I am.”

He keeps shoving this age difference in my face like a red light, and all it does is make me want to prove him wrong. I’ve spent so much time letting people talk over me. Nina doesn’t want to go because she doesn’t like crowds. Nina would never do this. I want to speak my mind, be bold, and try my damn hardest not to let anxiety, or anyone, control me.

Rhode Tremblay, included.

With his body covered, he glares down at my soggy clothes like the fabric just told some offensive joke. “Why’re you wet?”

“Have you been outside yet?” I wring out my damp hair, trying to seem unaffected even though my heart’s sizzling. “We got that early heat wave, so it’s storming.”

His Caribbean eyes rake down my wet hoodie, lingering for three of my heartbeats before he yanks his gaze to the coat rack, swallowing. I want to believe his thoughts flicker to the kitchen, but his constant references to my age are enough to kill anything between us.

I doubt he’s still thinking about that moment even though it’s constantly popping up in my dirtiest dreams. He’s probably moved on with someone his age. My chest tightens.

“Why didn’t you drive here?” he says through clenched teeth.

“Because Gwen has the car today, so I walked here after my last class. It wasn’t raining then, but halfway here, it started pouring. Oh, and here, I brought your beanie.”

“Thanks.” He takes the hat. “I would’ve picked you up if you asked.”

“I’m not going to do that to you. You just got back from a week of away games, so I figured you’d be exhausted. It’s not a big deal. Can I please come in? I’m freezing, and I brought cat treats for Chicken since you said he hates people, and I want him to like me.”

A divot forms between his brows. “You remembered my cat’s name?”

“Yes. I listen to you.” Rhode’s blue eyes linger on my face, so I dangle the bag of treats. “Are you just going to stand there staring, or will you let me inside?”

He gives his head a hard shake, then moves so I can pass. “Sure, Patty and Cruz will be here soon. Sorry that he made you come to dinner tonight. You didn’t have to, but Cruz can be pushy.”

“I wouldn’t have come if I didn’t want to, Rhode.” His eyes seem to soften, melting the guardrails around my heart, so I quickly add, “And I liked Micah in high school. He was funny. He made Spanish class a lot more fun.”

He grunts. “Yeah, Cruz is a damn comedian.”

“Exactly. I used to tell him he needed to do stand-up or something.”

I try not to inhale his smoky scent as I stride into the industrial open floor plan. Rhode’s apartment is every bit the bachelor pad I imagined it would be—brick walls, wooden floors, leather couches.

I’m used to college guys with beer-stained couches and beds without headboards. Not men with curtains hanging on their windows. Standing here, I feel like a puzzle piece being forced into the wrong hole.

I spot a few empty wrappers of ¡Vamos! protein bars across the leather couch. The mess makes me feel a little less out of place but doesn’t completely squash my simmering nerves. I glance around the living room, searching for a distraction as I try not to let the anxiety consume me.

He’s got all his gear hanging on a rack like some hockey tree, but I can’t find a cat. “Where’s Chicken?”

Rhode shuts the door with a thud. “Probably off hiding somewhere on top of the cabinets. He hates thunderstorms because of the loud noises, so I’d steer clear. They scare the hell out of him.”

I drop the bag of treats on the marble counter. “Well, these are for him when he wants to come out of hiding.”

Rhode scoops up an empty Gatorade bottle and throws it in the recycling bin. “Sorry for the mess. I should’ve cleaned, but I was exhausted after being on the road, and my cleaning person’s on paternity leave.”

I wave a hand. “You’re fine. It’s not even that messy. You should see my room.”

“I really shouldn’t.”

Our gazes snap to each other, and my mind drifts to that moment before I can stop the thought. He rips his eyes away first, scraping a hand over his stubbled jaw. “Let me get you a change of clothes. I’ll be right back.”

He saunters down the hallway before I have a chance to thank him, so I meander to a wall of pictures. I’m curious to see what Rhode looked like in his twenties, but it’s actually a collection of the most horrendous cross-stitches I’ve seen. I smile at all the terrible designs.

“Don’t be a…” I squint at the cross-stitch, reading the words out loud stitched above what looks like a skyscraper or a log. “Is that a… Oh, I get it. Don’t be a dick. That’s funny.”

“What’s funny?” Rhode snaps from behind me, warm breath coasting over my neck.

I jolt, and my back hits his broad chest. “Sorry, I was just looking at these cross-stitches. Did you buy them?”

He reaches over and points to a cross-stitch. Rhode’s bicep brushes my ear, and I shiver, but all he does is keep his unaffected gaze on the wall.

“No, I made these, except for the only good one of the ballsack that says I’m Nuts About You. My mom did that. She’s got the sense of humor of a twelve-year-old boy.”

“I think your mom might be my favorite person.”

“Mine too.” His lips turn up in the same way mine always do when I think of my mom. “It’s something she used to do, and I picked it up from her. It takes my mind off all the retirement bullshit, but since you’re an artist, you probably think I’m terrible.”

“Yeah, these really are horrific, but that’s my favorite kind of art because it’s unique,” I agree, examining the tragic cross-stitch collection. “Can you make me one?”

His laugh rumbles against my back.

“I’m serious, Rhode. I want one.”

There’s a pause. “You really want one of my shitty cross-stitches to hang up at your place?”

“Absolutely. I’d ask for two, but I’m sure you don’t have a lot of extra time to cross-stitch during the season.” Glancing over my shoulder, I find a deep divot between his brows. “What is it?”

“Nothing.” He shrugs. “It’s just that you’re the first person besides my mom and sister to ask me to make a cross-stitch for them.” He drops his eyes to the dry clothes folded in his hands. His Adam’s apple bobs.

With a sigh, he shakes off whatever was on his mind and thrusts the clothes out to me, still avoiding my gaze. “Here. Bathroom’s down the hall on the right, so you can change there. Sorry if that sweatshirt smells, by the way, it’s the only one I have.”

“Thanks.”

I hold the clothing at arm’s length. The Guardians logo is peeling off the front. Nice to know he’s giving me one of his dirty old sweatshirts, but at least it’s dry.

I head into the marble bathroom, but before I close the door, I shout down the hall. “Don’t think I didn’t notice that you avoided the cross-stitch topic. I’m serious. Your good luck charm wants one!”

I can’t be sure, but I think his low chuckle echoes through the closed door. The bathroom is massive, of course, with a black marble countertop and golden sconces on the walls.

A brown and white furry tail dangles off one of the top cabinets, and I grin. “You don’t look so mean.”

He hisses.

“Okay, then.” I jerk back. “It’s fine. We’ve all got our sassy sides.”

I peel off my crewneck until I’m topless in the bathroom. Bras are mini-torture chambers for my small boobs, so I never wear them. I lift the Guardians sweatshirt to my nose, carefully sniffing to see how bad it smells.

It’s a little musty due to that masculine smell of sweat, but there’s also the woodsy scent of his cologne. I sniff again, deeper this time.

It smells warm, if smells can be warm, or maybe it’s that the soft material feels like it’s been worn for ages. I start tugging it over my head right as an earsplitting crack of thunder shatters the silence.

With a jump, I clutch the sweatshirt to my chest.

Lights flicker.

The bathroom turns pitch-black.

There’s a loud screech, and a sharp pain erupts across my bare back like searing hot blades slicing through my skin. I can’t help but let out an agonized scream that reverberates across the marble. It feels like there’s something clawing its way onto my back.

“Stop!” I shriek.

‘Nina!’ Rhode’s voice echoes through the door, and there’s a pounding on the other side. “What’s wrong? Open the door!”

The lights flick back on, and in the mirror, I see Chicken clinging to me, scraping his claws down my back.

The relentless pain intensifies, and I let out another piercing scream until, at last, the cat relinquishes its hold and patters away, leaving little droplets of my blood on the marble tile.

“Open the damn door!”

Rhode sounds murderous, and I’d be terrified if my skin didn’t feel like it was on fire. I try to respond, but all that comes through is a quiet sob. He bangs again.

Once.

Twice.

The door handle jiggles. “Fuck it. I’m coming inside.’