Icebound (Boundless Players)

I spend a completely normal amount of time contemplating my death—I checked with my therapist.

According to Dr. Ghosh, my musings on mortality aren’t unusual, thankfully. I plan to live until I’m more wrinkled than one of those cute dogs, the Shar-Peis, but I do hope that when I go, my death will make a good story.

Dying in a car crash with burnt rubber charring my nostrils and America’s sexiest plumber in the backseat is far from iconic.

In the brief moments when I lose control and we careen into oncoming traffic, that’s exactly what I think is coming for me—death.

“Watch out for the car!”

Sexy Plumber lunges for the steering wheel and swerves us back into the right lane so we narrowly avoid hitting the black Tahoe. The sound of screeching brakes fills the starry night.

I punch the brake on instinct, and we jerk, slamming into a pile of trash cans on the sidewalk. That’s going to leave a mark on the car.

An orange peel splatters on the windshield with a loud thwap.

The plumber pitches forward, hitting the back of my skull with his forehead. A sharp pain ripples through my temple, and I wince.

“Sorry, you alright?” he rushes out. “Easy on the brake. I think that noise was the other car’s tire blowing out. Thank fuck we didn’t hit anyone. Please tell me you’re okay.”

“I think so,” I pant, staring at my shaking hands on the wheel.

I’m okay. We’re okay. You’re okay, Nina.

He hovers over me from the backseat, close enough that his stubble brushes my cheek. Sexy Plumber puts the car in park and releases a heavy breath, making my skin prickle to life. I rub my arms to get rid of the little bumps.

“Okay, we’re good.” He slumps into the backseat. “We made it to the curb. We’re good.”

“Right,” I pant. “The curb.”

“That was too close. We’re lucky we didn’t hit anyone else with all these people around. Guess that four-leaf clover on your neck brought us some luck. I think the other car’s fine but let me go check on them.”

His calm words do nothing to suck the tension from my rigid shoulders. The panic’s building, rising like water in a glass box. My own personal cage that’s trapped me since childhood. Except, it’s nothing like that time I actually got stuck in an elevator as a kid.

Talk about traumatizing.

I’ll get light-headed, maybe, no definitely, nauseous, and then I’ll spiral into a mental tornado for anywhere from four to thirty minutes and emerge a sweaty mess.

Fabulous.

Dread fills me, and I grit my teeth like I’m walking into my pottery class to present one of my pieces.

“Nina?” he says. “Did you hear me?”

I jump at the sound of my name. He remembered. “No, can you shout it in my ear again? Louder this time.”

I regret the words as soon as they fly from my lips. Anxiety always sharpens my words, making them ready to strike the nearest opposing victim, but he hasn’t done anything wrong. In fact, this man’s doing everything right.

He deserves soft words, not sharp ones.

His firm hand squeezes my shoulder. I think he means for it to be comforting, but I flinch.

He instantly pulls back. “Hey, I know it’s scary, but we’re all going to be fine. It doesn’t look like they hit anyone, either. We’re good.”

My chest rises in short, shallow breaths as I try to keep my hands from shaking. “Okay, yeah. Thanks. Sorry for snapping and punching the brake too hard.”

“It’s all good. You can snap if you need to, just don’t break on me.”

I get a lingering trace of his aftershave when he speaks. The aroma wafts through the car, and my eyes close involuntarily. It smells like the crackling fire at the tiny cabin my parents used to take us to in the Blue Ridge Mountains. Each inhalation is like hugging an old friend, but it does nothing to stop the onslaught of memories.

Beeping monitors. Doctors. Hospitals.

The images flicker like ghosts haunting my mind.

My heartbeat grows urgent, like my chest is a prison, and it’s demanding to be heard. Chills roll over my clammy skin while my thoughts spin in a dizzying storm, each one slipping through my grasp before I can make sense of it. I dart my eyes to the ridiculously attractive, but unfamiliar face before me.

The plumber’s gaze is calmer than the Caribbean, but his presence is like a space heater in an already stifling room. The man’s massive. He’s too much to handle right now.

I subtly pull back, not wanting some stranger to bear witness to my vulnerability. I’ve lived with anxiety long enough that panic attacks are more frequent than my period, and it’s easier to fall apart when no one’s watching.

“Hey, you alright, Nina?” His deep voice reverberates through my mind.

“I’m great,” I say, a little too brightly since I’m used to hiding beneath faux grins.

I can’t for the life of me remember his name, and now I feel guilty because he knows mine. Ronald, maybe? “You can go check on the other car. I’m fine. I’ll be right out.”

His dark brow furrows. “You sure you’re alright? I don’t feel good about leaving you alone.”

I force a smile, even though it feels like I’m running a marathon underwater. “Yes, I’m fine, really. You can go. I’m good. Great.”

His gaze scorches my cheek, but I focus on the flickering streetlights. On. Off. On. Off. Life would be so much easier if I could dim my emotions with a simple flip. I’d keep my anxiety turned off and my sarcastic quips turned on.

He gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Sure, but you let me know if you need me. I’ll be close. Let me check the other car.”

My lips feel like they’re stitched together, so I dip my head in a silent nod. His hand twitches up, but after a second, he clenches his fist and climbs out of my sister’s Audi.

Every time I breathe, the seat belt pulls against my nipple piercing. That was a godawful decision, but I can’t regret it when it was the last time I laughed with my sister. If we don’t die tonight, she’s going to murder me for crashing her car.

Now, that would make a good story—Older Sister Bludgeons Rival Sibling with Curling Iron after Months of Feuding.

As he walks away, my head thumps back against the seat. The air feels lighter now that he’s gone, but black spots still flirt with the edges of my vision.

I suck in a long breath.

In for four.

Hold, Nina.

Out for four.

Gritting my teeth, I zone in on the mouse, scurrying on a telephone line. Wait, is that a mouse or a rat? Please be a mouse. Breathe. The crowd of pedestrians gathering around the plumber. Breathe. The smoke spiraling up to the twinkling stars. Breathe. A dog peeing on a fire hydrant.

“Breathe, Nina,” I say to myself. “You aren’t swimming in shark-infested waters. You aren’t walking into a burning building to save a baby. It’s just the adrenaline rush that makes your body feel like this. You’re safe. Thanks to Sexy Plumber, you’re okay.”

I continue with my box breathing techniques, all while resenting the anxious monster in my chest, lurking, waiting in the dark.

Always waiting.

Sometimes it hibernates, and other days, it claws its way out to attack my thoughts. I never know what mood the devious creature will be in, so the only thing I can do is drag myself out of the mental ditch over and over again.

No one else can fight my battles. All I want is someone who sees the darkest corners of my soul and doesn’t get scared off by the cobwebs.

Anxiety might suck me into the whirlpool of my life, but I always come up for air.

After what feels like a millennium of breathing techniques, my heart rate returns to normal. I glance at the time on my phone. “Hm. Not bad. That one was only six minutes.”

Those words are like calling a tornado a fall breeze, but I’m proud of all the work I put in while sitting on Dr. Ghosh’s lumpy green chair with that stain shaped like Italy. Therapy might not be a cure-all, but it does come with a decent side of coping mechanisms.

Now that I’m sufficiently sweaty and exhausted, I dig through the console and grab some tissues to dab the sweat under my arms. I refuse to step outside looking like chaos incarnate in front of the plumber who must bench press toilets when he’s not fixing them.

Wrapping my thrifted puffy jacket around my shoulders, I head out onto the packed residential street. The freezing Tennessee wind nips at my cheeks.

Pedestrians line the sidewalk, maintaining a respectful distance, but their eyes are fixed on the plumber. When I see him, I can’t blame them for staring.

This man looks like he was handcrafted with temptation.

He’s rolled up his sleeves, even though it’s frigid, revealing the thick veins lining his forearms like a map leading to a naughty destination. How’s he not freezing his ass off? He’s got that type of muscle definition that only comes from hours spent in the gym, and if anything, the dedication’s impressive.

The man’s got it all—broad shoulders, neck veins, sharp jawline. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had fuckboy tattooed on his dick.

I search his face for a flaw, any flaw, I’ll even take an oddly shaped mole. My shoulders loosen when I see the slight bump in his nose like it’s been broken.

As I navigate through the crowd, I notice several people with phones raised, but I’m more concerned with the man hunched over the black Tahoe.

“Is that the guy from that underwear commercial?”

“No, I think he’s from that yacht scandal.”

“I thought he was retiring from the League?”

My curiosity piques, but I have no idea what league they’re talking about, so I ignore them and nudge my way through the onlookers.

Sexy Plumber’s brow is pinched in concentration, and a sudden wave of gratitude washes over me. Without him, I’d probably be dead. Either that, or I’d be sitting here, freezing my ass off while googling how to change a tire to help the other car.

As I get closer, I realize he’s actually huddled over a little boy who looks like he’s hyperventilating next to his terrified mom. It’s probably how I looked moments ago, so without a second thought, I push through the last two people. “Is everything okay? What happened?”

He gives me a tight smile lined with worry. “Yeah, we’re alright. This is Gabriel and his mom. They were in the other car when their tire popped, and Gabriel here has asthma. He got a little scared, and I can’t blame him because I did too, but he’s having an asthma attack. He doesn’t have his inhaler, so we’re waiting on an ambulance.”

His tone is calm, but there’s a deep crease between his brows. I wrack my brain, and this is one of the few times I’m actually grateful for my sleepless nights and the internet rabbit holes I spiral down. “Wait here.”

I rush back to my car and dig through the console until I find my sister’s leftover cold brew that could bring a corpse back to life. I avoid caffeine like I avoid alcohol, but she’s a coffee addict.

Grabbing it, I sprint back to the mom and her son. The crowd parts for me in the way people normally part for my older sister.

I thrust out the drink to the boy’s mom. “Here, I know it’s not his medication, but I read that caffeine can help open up the airways in asthma patients.”

The plumber balks. “I forgot. I should’ve just asked you from the beginning.”

I don’t know what he means by that comment, but the mom gives me a grateful smile and pulls me into a hug, thanking me profusely. “Thank you. Thank you so much. You’re truly a lifesaver.”

My eyes prickle as she releases me. Anxiety’s never made me someone’s hero. I better soak up this moment, so I can remember it the next time I can’t sleep.

The woman huddles over her son, giving him sips of the coffee, and then sirens shriek through the cold night like the wrong note plucked in a symphony. Red and blue lights paint the street as the ambulance arrives.

The next thirty minutes are a jumbled mess.

People crowd around the cars. Cameras flash. A few people even ask to take pictures with the plumber, which is strange, but maybe he’s got a home renovation show. It must be a slow news night because a reporter shows up for some reason.

As we’re checked for injuries, I message my sister to come to pick me up because her Audi needs to be fixed, and even though we’re feuding, she always answers my texts in less than a minute.

By the time the first responders deem everyone fine, I’m exhausted, but Gabriel’s okay, and that’s what matters. People are still crowding around the plumber while he inspects the black Tahoe, but he keeps glancing my way. I tap my foot, scanning the street for my ride.

“So, I think they’re going to need a tow too,” he says, standing. “Either that, or we’ll have to lift the car ourselves to change the tire.”

I point over my shoulder. “Should I just head to the gym for the next fifty years, so I can pack on a thousand pounds of muscle?”

Chuckling, he gives me a lopsided smile that turns him from sexy to endearing in less than a heartbeat. The throaty sound sinks into every crevice of my body before I can stop it from happening.

That’s one dangerous grin.

He needs to be careful flashing that smile around. Someone might accidentally end up naked on top of him.

“No weight-lifting necessary. We can use a car jack. Let me see if you’ve got one.” A dimple pops on his right cheek because, of course, it does.

Thankfully, he doesn’t have a matching set. It’s like whoever created him started to give him two dimples and then realized one was lethal enough.

He digs around my trunk. The streetlight’s glow casts a gleam in his dark hair, almost making it look wet. Now, I’m imagining water streaming down his bare back in the shower, but I don’t want to objectify him just because his chiseled physique could rival the statues on campus.

I shake my head.

Hard.

Then again, so my brain gets the point.

He’s got this intense look that whispers temptations of nights spent tangled in bedsheets, but I’m done with men who look like fallen angels. I’m done with men in general. The next person I sleep with better be obsessed with me, so I don’t have a repeat of the Isaac fiasco.

He slams the trunk. “Alright, no car jack, but there are uh, ten boxes of condoms back there, which has me wondering what you get up to when you aren’t cutting into brains.”

“What?” I gasp. “Cutting into brains?”

He points his thumb at me, brows quirked. “Doctor, right?”

It takes me a moment to jump onto his train of thought. Then, I remember I told him I’m a resident because I’ve been on a medical drama kick recently. I was mostly joking because I’m still fifty-fifty on the plumber comment, but it’s utterly shocking he didn’t call me out since I look like I’m headed to a music festival.

He tosses the blue box back in the car, but I’m not going to admit there was a ten percent off sale if I bought ten boxes of condoms to a stranger. “We were doing a sex educational course at the hospital. The other resident brought cucumbers so we could roll on the condoms as a demonstration.”

“Not bananas?” he says wryly. “I feel like you’re setting some unrealistic expectations there with the cucumbers.”

He winks. I try not to frown, but men who wink at strangers should come with a warning label. I don’t say anything because what am I supposed to say? I’ve seen plenty of cucumber-sized dicks?

I haven’t.

Silence swells between us. It looks like his cheeks flush in the dim light, but it’s freezing out.

He coughs. “Alright, cucumbers aside… The tow company should be here soon to take your car to the shop to get rid of the dent. Do you need a ride? I should get home to feed Chicken, but I want to make sure you make it back safe.”

I quirk my head. “Is Chicken your… chicken?”

“No, he’s my cat,” he says like it’s obvious.

“You named your cat Chicken? Why? Does he eat chickens?”

He frowns. “Yeah, but I don’t know why it sounds so nasty when you say it like that. My sister chose the name because that’s all he’d eat when we brought him back from the shelter, but now I’m imagining him devouring a bloody chicken. He eats canned chicken like a normal cat.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” He shoves his hands into his pockets. “So, how about that ride?”

The question catches me off guard. It probably, no, definitely, makes me a bit judgmental, but I expected a man who looks as tempting as him to care more about my condom plans than whether I made it home safe.

I wave a hand. “No, thanks, but I’m fine. I already texted my sister to come get me. Do you need a ride?”

The corners of his lips turn down. “Oh, uh, no. I already texted one of my buddies to pick me up.”

There’s a hushed pause, a beat where our stares linger. His eyes are a bright shade of cerulean blue, more vivid than the colors in Frida Kahlo’s paintings.

He cocks his head like he’s waiting for me to say something. “So, I guess this is goodbye?”

“Yeah, I guess—”

The sudden flare of headlights cuts through the crowded, cold night, veering around the corner. The blinding glare forces me to squint through my glasses until I spot the familiar red Jeep that’s taken me to countless pottery lessons and office hours.

The door swings open with a creak, but instead of my sister’s familiar face, a completely unwelcome set of dimples steps out into the dim streetlight.

I used to find that confident strut charming, but now it reminds me of a waddle. I dig my nails into my palms. If I have to hear him ask me one more time in that patronizing tone if I’m sure I’m okay with this, or if I’m hanging in there, I might self-combust.

Red flags wave in the back of my mind, but bad choices are my forte. Exhibit A is walking toward me in his sweatshirt that reads I might be N. Er. Dy. but only Periodically. I can still see the stain on the shoulder where I spilled my decaf coffee that I wish Tide had washed out.

A few onlookers watch as I race over to the plumber, gripping his insanely muscular forearm. This man must live at the gym. He jolts at the contact, but at least he doesn’t pull away. That’s a good start. “Okay, this is going to sound crazy, but are you married?”

“What?” His brows nearly fly off his forehead.

“Are you married?” I repeat. “Or in a civil union? Maybe a domestic partnership?”

“No, I’m not married or any of the above. Why?”

I narrow my eyes on the gray sprinkling his temples. He looks like he’s in his late twenties, maybe early thirties. I drop my gaze to his ring finger. It’s bare, which means he must microwave puppies or something equally horrific because no one looks like him and stays single unless they’re hiding some serious flaws.

“Are you dating anyone?”

He smirks. Of course, he smirks. “No. You interested?”

“In theory, yes…” I swallow. “Okay, here’s the thing. I need you to do me one tiny favor. I realize I have no right to ask you this, and you probably have a lot of toilets to fix, so you can absolutely say no, and I won’t be offended.”

“Alright, let’s hear it. What’s the favor?”

I draw in a lungful of air. “Can you please pretend like we were on a date, and I’m not your Lyft driver? Oh, and if you could act like you’re completely obsessed with me, that’d be even better.”