He pulled his hand close like she was going to cleanse the wound by shoving his thumb into the fire. Trust issues? This guy? Yeah, he was pretty much a wounded bear. Of course, that didn’t excuse him from being an ass. Come on, they were both adults. Shitty stuff happened to everyone. Part of adulting was figuring out how to move forward without firebombing the place.

“Nah,” he said, relaxing a few degrees as if he realized he’d flinched. “I’ll live—and eventually the sports press will stop giving me shit for getting injured by falling over my own feet.”

“Could be worse. Do you remember the goaltender who tweaked his shoulder blow-drying his hair and had to stay off the ice?”

Ian chuckled. “And then there was Ron Tugnutt—real name—who messed up his groin when he bent over to tie his shoes.”

“Or,” she said, getting into the spirit of the moment, “the guy who busted up his hand cleaning his bagpipes—not a euphamism.”

They were both snickering by now at the ridiculousness of it. Hockey wasn’t an easy sport. It was hard checks, illegal hits, and fighting over a frozen piece of vulcanized rubber that could knock your teeth out and break bones if it hit a player right. Still, the players played through it all, even if it meant wincing on their way to the bench and spending the time between shifts trying to fight through the pain.

God knew, she’d seen it enough going to games with her former stepdad before he’d hit it big and had earned enough to finally buy the team he’d always loved.

Of course, that hadn’t happened until after Jasper Dawson and her mother divorced. After that, they’d lost touch because it wasn’t like they’d even been related for that long—her mom rarely made it past the year-and-a-half mark before setting her eyes on freedom. Still, when Shelby saw the news about Jasper, she’d celebrated that little victory of his from her room at the rehab clinic, telling everyone about how for one glorious season she and Jasper had season tickets right behind the bench.

It had gotten so cold down there at that level, and by the end of the games, there was no mistaking the smell of the sweat-soaked hockey pads, but it had been absolutely wonderful. So when her counselor had recommended she find a hobby that she could pour her energy into instead of pouring herself into a bottle, the Ice Knights had been it. And The Biscuit had been born out of a place of desperate hope for the future.

“So you’re saying I’m in good company?” Ian asked, dragging her back to the here and now.

“Well, you’re at least not alone. I’m not sure it’s the same thing.” She held out her hand. “Now, let me see your thumb.”