Chapter 7
Ben
The concept of "territory" is fundamental to hockey. You defend the defensive zone. You control the neutral zone. You attack the offensive zone. If you lose track of your territory, you lose the game.
My territory used to be simple: The rink. The gym. And my bedroom in the attic of the Ice Box. Those were the sterile, controlled environments where I existed.
But in the last forty-eight hours, my territory had been invaded, colonized, and fundamentally restructured by a five-foot-three insurgent with a vitamin D deficiency and a mouth that wouldn't quit.
And the terrifying part? I wasn't fighting the invasion anymore. I was reinforcing the perimeter around her.
It was Friday night. The roads had finally been plowed, leaving massive, dirty banks of snow lining the streets of Burlington. The campus was waking up from its hibernation.
I stood in the entryway of the house, jingling my keys. I was wearing jeans—actual denim, not sweatpants—and a black thermal long-sleeve. I had shaved. I had put on cologne.
I told myself it was just a supply run. The kitchen was empty. The boys had raided the emergency rations during the blizzard, and Ivy had decimated my fruit supply. We needed food.
But you don't put on expensive cologne to buy eggs.
"I'm ready! I'm ready! Stop looking at your watch, you tyrant."
I looked up as Ivy came bounding down the stairs.
My breath hitched in my throat. It was a physical reaction, involuntary and annoying.
She wasn't wearing my clothes. For the first time in days, she was dressed like Ivy St. James. She wore dark skinny jeans tucked into knee-high leather boots, a cream-colored sweater that looked soft enough to sleep in, and a camel coat that probably cost more than my Jeep.
She looked expensive. She looked polished. She looked like she belonged in a Manhattan art gallery, not standing in the foyer of a hockey house that smelled faintly of damp equipment and pizza.
But then she smiled—a bright, genuine, unguarded smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes—and the "Ice Princess" image shattered.
"Well?" she spun in a circle, wincing slightly as she put weight on her taped ankle. "Do I look like a productive member of society?"
"You look like a liability," I grumbled, pushing down the urge to walk over there and bury my hands in that cream sweater. "Where's your hat? It's ten degrees out."
"It ruins the bun, Ben. Fashion requires sacrifice."
"Hypothermia isn't fashionable. It's a medical emergency." I reached to the coat rack, grabbed a black beanie—one of mine—and jammed it onto her head.
"Hey!" She batted at my hands, laughing. "You're ruining the aesthetic!"
"I'm preserving your body heat. I have an investment to protect." I adjusted the hat, pulling it low over her ears. My fingers lingered on her cheek. Her skin was flushed, warm against the cold air of the foyer.
She went still under my touch. Her eyes searched mine, the laughter fading into that familiar, heavy tension that seemed to follow us everywhere.
"Ready?" I asked, my voice dropping an octave.
"Ready," she whispered.
I opened the door, placing my hand on the small of her back to guide her out. It was a habitual movement now. A reflex. She moves, I guide.
As we walked down the porch steps, I scanned the street. I checked the icy patches on the walkway. I checked the passing cars.
We were a team. A weird, dysfunctional, secret team. But looking at her trudging through the snow in my beanie, I felt a surge of possessiveness so strong it nearly knocked the wind out of me.
Let the world try to touch her. I dared them.
The grocery store was a battlefield of fluorescent lights and aggressive shoppers panic-buying milk.
I hated grocery shopping. It was inefficient. People moved slowly, blocked aisles, and lacked spatial awareness. Usually, I went at 6:00 AM, moved with tactical precision, and was out in twenty minutes.
Today, however, I was pushing the cart at a snail's pace, following a blonde chaotic element who seemed determined to read the label on every single item in the store.
"Ben, look." Ivy held up a box of sugary cereal with a cartoon mascot. "It's pure nostalgia. We need it."
"It's pure high-fructose corn syrup," I countered, steering the cart toward the produce section. "Put it back."
"You're no fun. You're the anti-fun. You're the fun-police." She tossed the box into the cart anyway.
"I'm the Captain," I said, reaching into the cart and removing the box, placing it on a random shelf next to the pasta sauce. "And the Captain says we eat real food."
"Tyrant," she muttered, but she was smiling.
We moved into the produce section. This was my domain. I started selecting vegetables—spinach, peppers, sweet potatoes. I inspected them for bruises, checking firmness.
Ivy watched me. She leaned against the side of the cart, resting her chin on her arms, just studying me.
"What?" I asked, weighing a bag of apples.
"Nothing," she said softly. "It's just... you're very domestic. For a terrifying defenseman."
"I like order. Cooking is chemistry. It has rules."
"You really love rules, don't you?"
"Rules keep things from falling apart." I tossed the apples in the cart. "Without rules, you get chaos. You get... you."
She laughed. "I am chaos, aren't I?"
"You're a menace."
I moved past her to grab a head of broccoli. As I did, I leaned in close, pressing my chest against her back, trapping her between me and the cart handle.
I felt her breath hitch. She went rigid, then melted back against me.
"But," I murmured into her ear, keeping my voice low so the soccer mom three feet away couldn't hear, "I'm starting to think a little chaos might be good for the system."
I felt her shiver.
"Excuse me."
The voice was sharp, nasally, and unwelcome.
I didn't pull away immediately. I took my time, straightening up slowly, keeping my shoulder pressed against Ivy’s. I turned to see a girl standing in the aisle. She was tall, thin, with her hair pulled back tightly. She was wearing a Blackstone Dance Program jacket.
Ivy stiffened. I felt her "armor" slam into place. The relaxed, laughing girl vanished. The poised, cold heiress appeared.
"Hello, Jessica," Ivy said. Her tone was polite, distant.
"Ivy," Jessica sneered, looking her up and down. "We didn't see you at warm-ups today. Lila said you were... occupied."
Jessica’s eyes flicked to me. She took in my size, the scar on my neck, the scowl I was currently aiming at her like a weapon. She wrinkled her nose.
"I didn't realize you were into... rough trade," Jessica said, her voice dripping with fake concern. "Doesn't seem very 'St. James', does it? hanging out with the hockey team? Daddy must be thrilled."
I felt Ivy flinch.
That was it.
I stepped around the cart. I didn't get in Jessica’s face—I wasn't going to intimidate a hundred-pound girl physically—but I used my presence. I crossed my arms, expanding my chest, and leveled the "Butcher" stare at her. The one that made referees reconsider their calls.
"She wasn't at warm-ups," I said, my voice a low, dangerous rumble, "because she was rehabbing an injury. Which she got because she works harder in an hour than you probably do in a week."
Jessica’s mouth dropped open. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me," I continued, stepping closer to Ivy, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her into my side.
I felt her relax instantly against me, drawing strength from the contact.
"And as for who she hangs out with... she hangs out with the people who actually give a damn about her. Which doesn't seem to include you."
I looked down at Ivy. "Are we done here? Or do you want to buy this... person... some manners? Aisle four, I think."
Ivy looked up at me. Her eyes were wide, shining with something that looked a lot like adoration. She suppressed a smile.
"I think we're done," she said.
She looked back at Jessica. "Bye, Jess. Good luck with your pirouettes. I heard your spotting was a little off lately."
We walked away.
I kept my arm around her waist as we navigated the rest of the store. I didn't let go. I steered her around corners, shielded her from passing carts.
"You didn't have to do that," she whispered as we reached the frozen food aisle.
"Yes, I did."
"She's just jealous. She wants the solo."
"She's a bitch," I corrected. "And nobody talks to you like that when I'm around. Nobody."
Ivy stopped. She turned in the circle of my arm, facing me. We were standing in front of the frozen pizzas.
"Thank you," she said softly.
"For what?"
"For being on my side. Even when I'm... a liability."
I looked down at her. The beanie was crooked. Her nose was pink from the cold.
"I'm always on your side, Ivy," I admitted, the truth of it terrifying me. "I think I've been on your side since you climbed through my window."
She reached up, her hand resting on my chest, right over my heart.
"Ben?"
"Yeah?"
"Can we get the dinosaur nuggets? Please?"
I huffed a laugh, the tension breaking. "Fine. Get the damn nuggets. But you're eating broccoli with them."
"Deal."
We didn't go straight home.
I drove the Jeep out of town, away from the campus, away from the expectations. We ended up at "Micky’s," a roadside diner that looked like it hadn't been renovated since 1975. It smelled like grease, old coffee, and comfort.
We sat in a booth in the back. It was red vinyl, cracked in places.
We ordered enough food to feed a small army. Burgers, fries, a milkshake for her (vanilla), a black coffee for me.
"So," Ivy said, dipping a fry into her milkshake, a culinary crime I was trying to ignore. "Tell me about the silence."
"What silence?"
"The silence you like. The routine. Why do you need it so bad?"
I stirred my coffee, watching the black liquid swirl. I rarely talked about this. Not with the guys. Not with my dad.
"My house growing up wasn't a home," I said quietly. "It was a campaign headquarters. There were always people. Staff, donors, press. Noise. Constant noise. And expectations. 'Smile, Ben. Shake hands, Ben. Don't look sullen, Ben.'"