Chapter 14
14
The cold air in the arena hit me the second I stepped through the doors, the faint scent of french fries and hot chocolate drifting over from the canteen. The steady hum of blades cutting across ice echoed from the rink as I carried a stack of posters under one arm. I tried to ignore the pinch of worry in my chest as I glanced toward the glass.
There he was, Graham, skating through warmups like he wasn’t carrying the weight of his injury. Every move seemed effortless—the smooth slide of his pads, the confident snap of his glove. He didn’t look like someone who’d almost snapped his knee in half last night.
But I knew better.
I walked toward the notice board just inside the rink entrance, my boots crunching against the salt scattered on the floor. The poster for the tree lighting was bright and cheerful in my hand, the kind of thing that felt at odds with the storm of emotions swirling in my chest lately.
I’d barely taped up the first corner when someone called out, “Oh, Isla, that’s one of yours, isn’t it?”
I turned, my cheeks heating. “Uh, yeah.”
“It’s beautiful,” the lady called out as she walked by. “Your lettering is just lovely. And that tree—it looks like it belongs in a magazine.”
“Thank you,” I murmured, finishing the second corner. My fingers shook a little, and I focused on smoothing the tape.
“You’ve got quite the gift,” another voice chimed in. I glanced up to see an older man in a puffy coat, studying the poster with a warm smile. “This whole town’s lucky to have you.”
The words caught me off guard. My throat tightened as I muttered another quick thanks, brushing a stray lock of hair out of my face. Compliments always felt slippery, like I didn’t quite know how to hold onto them.
“Looks great, Isla,” added someone else as they walked by, and I nodded, feeling the attention pressing down on me.
I turned back to the notice board, pretending to fuss with the tape again, and glanced toward the rink. Graham was down on one knee, adjusting his pads. When he stood, he caught sight of me through the glass and gave a quick wave.
I hesitated before waving back, then slung the tape into my bag and made my way toward the ice.
He skated over as I reached the boards, stopping in front of me with a sharp spray of ice. “Hey. Nice posters.”
“Nice save earlier,” I shot back, nodding toward the net. “How’s your knee?”
He shrugged, adjusting the strap on his glove. “Fine.”
“Graham…”
He cut me off before I could say more. “Isla, I’m fine. Athletes play through this stuff all the time.”
“That doesn’t mean you should,” I said, frowning.
He leaned on his stick, looking at me with an infuriating mix of amusement and patience. “I promise, if it was serious, I’d sit out. But it’s not. A little sore, that’s all.”
His reassurances didn’t quiet the knot in my stomach, but I knew better than to push. He was as stubborn as I was when it came to proving he didn’t need anyone’s help.
“I’m just saying,” I muttered, crossing my arms. “You’re not invincible, even if you think you
are.”
He smirked. “Not invincible, huh? You sure about that?”
“Don’t make me hit you with this poster.” I said, holding one rolled up poster up for emphasis.
He laughed, the sound deep and warm, and tapped the boards with his stick. “You worry too much, you know that?”
“Someone has to,” I said, my voice softer now.
His grin faltered for a split second, something unreadable flickering across his face. But then his coach called from the bench, and he gave me a quick nod before skating away.
I watched him for another moment, biting the inside of my cheek, before turning toward the concession area. As I walked, snippets of conversation floated by—parents cheering on their kids, someone lamenting a broken skate, and then a name that stopped me in my tracks.
“Harold’s down with the flu,” one woman was saying to another.
“Oh no,” her friend replied. “Does that mean Santa’s out for the tree lighting?”
“Looks like it,” the first woman said, shaking her head. “Poor Evelyn must be beside herself.”
I stood frozen, their words replaying in my head. Harold—Santa—was sick?
I made a mental note to find Evelyn as soon as the game was over.
The cold air in the arena hit me the second I stepped through the doors, the faint scent of french fries and hot chocolate drifting over from the canteen. The steady hum of blades cutting across ice echoed from the rink as I carried a stack of posters under one arm. I tried to ignore the pinch of worry in my chest as I glanced toward the glass.
There he was, Graham, skating through warmups like he wasn’t carrying the weight of his injury. Every move seemed effortless—the smooth slide of his pads, the confident snap of his glove. He didn’t look like someone who’d almost snapped his knee in half last night.
But I knew better.
I walked toward the notice board just inside the rink entrance, my boots crunching against the salt scattered on the floor. The poster for the tree lighting was bright and cheerful in my hand, the kind of thing that felt at odds with the storm of emotions swirling in my chest lately.
I’d barely taped up the first corner when someone called out, “Oh, Isla, that’s one of yours, isn’t it?”
I turned, my cheeks heating. “Uh, yeah.”
“It’s beautiful,” the lady called out as she walked by. “Your lettering is just lovely. And that tree—it looks like it belongs in a magazine.”
“Thank you,” I murmured, finishing the second corner. My fingers shook a little, and I focused on smoothing the tape.
“You’ve got quite the gift,” another voice chimed in. I glanced up to see an older man in a puffy coat, studying the poster with a warm smile. “This whole town’s lucky to have you.”
The words caught me off guard. My throat tightened as I muttered another quick thanks, brushing a stray lock of hair out of my face. Compliments always felt slippery, like I didn’t quite know how to hold onto them.
“Looks great, Isla,” added someone else as they walked by, and I nodded, feeling the attention pressing down on me.
I turned back to the notice board, pretending to fuss with the tape again, and glanced toward the rink. Graham was down on one knee, adjusting his pads. When he stood, he caught sight of me through the glass and gave a quick wave.
I hesitated before waving back, then slung the tape into my bag and made my way toward the ice.
He skated over as I reached the boards, stopping in front of me with a sharp spray of ice. “Hey. Nice posters.”
“Nice save earlier,” I shot back, nodding toward the net. “How’s your knee?”
He shrugged, adjusting the strap on his glove. “Fine.”
“Graham…”
He cut me off before I could say more. “Isla, I’m fine. Athletes play through this stuff all the time.”
“That doesn’t mean you should,” I said, frowning.
He leaned on his stick, looking at me with an infuriating mix of amusement and patience. “I promise, if it was serious, I’d sit out. But it’s not. A little sore, that’s all.”
His reassurances didn’t quiet the knot in my stomach, but I knew better than to push. He was as stubborn as I was when it came to proving he didn’t need anyone’s help.
“I’m just saying,” I muttered, crossing my arms. “You’re not invincible, even if you think you
are.”
He smirked. “Not invincible, huh? You sure about that?”
“Don’t make me hit you with this poster.” I said, holding one rolled up poster up for emphasis.
He laughed, the sound deep and warm, and tapped the boards with his stick. “You worry too much, you know that?”
“Someone has to,” I said, my voice softer now.
His grin faltered for a split second, something unreadable flickering across his face. But then his coach called from the bench, and he gave me a quick nod before skating away.
I watched him for another moment, biting the inside of my cheek, before turning toward the concession area. As I walked, snippets of conversation floated by—parents cheering on their kids, someone lamenting a broken skate, and then a name that stopped me in my tracks.
“Harold’s down with the flu,” one woman was saying to another.
“Oh no,” her friend replied. “Does that mean Santa’s out for the tree lighting?”
“Looks like it,” the first woman said, shaking her head. “Poor Evelyn must be beside herself.”
I stood frozen, their words replaying in my head. Harold—Santa—was sick?
I made a mental note to find Evelyn as soon as the game was over.
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