11. leo
ELEVEN
leo
I glare at the suitcases hidden in the back hall. “Why does it look like Santa dropped off his luggage for a week?”
“Not Santa,” Sloan says. “Someone cuter.”
I pick up a suitcase. It’s blindingly pink and feels like it’s packed with bricks. There’s only one person I know who likes pink more than a six-year-old girl. No way. Absolutely no freaking way am I letting her stay here just because this party might go late.
I turn around too quickly and accidentally drop it on my foot.
“What in the—” I mutter, trying not to curse in a house full of people. I can’t imagine what she’s packed in there—rocks? Dumbbells? A full-grown reindeer?
I limp down the hall on my bruised foot. “Who’s responsible for the pink suitcase that just tried to kill me?” I call out. “Pretty sure the small one holds a bowling ball.”
“I’ll give you three hints,” Sloan says. “She’s prettier than you, skates better than you, and her apartment is underwater from a burst pipe.”
“Victoria?” So that’s what her neighbor’s message was about. “Please tell me she’s donating these to charity and not moving in.”
“Oh, she’s staying,” Sloan says. “And not just for one night. She already took one bag up to her room earlier when she showered.”
“You let her use my shower?” The thought torments me. No way am I letting Victoria invade my space, where I’ll have to see her morning, noon, and night—in two-piece pajamas, no less—looking at me with those soft lips that scream, Kiss me , but also, I might kill you .
It’s hard enough to be her skating partner. Letting her into my personal space just might be the death of me.
“Why not?” Vale asks, strolling in with perfect timing to enjoy my misery.
“Because she’s...” I falter. I can’t exactly tell them details about our history. How I once thought she was the love of my life before she dumped me so hard, I still feel the whiplash.
“Annoyingly pretty?” Sloan offers, smirking.
“Inconveniently immune to your charms?” Vale adds.
“I was going to say unpleasant ,” I correct. “Especially toward me. Might have something to do with our breakup.”
Which isn’t fair, considering I should be the one holding the grudge. She didn’t even have the decency to break up with me face-to-face. Instead, she sent a text message. Who does that? A cartoon supervillain twirling their mustache, that’s who.
“Maybe you should try being nice to her,” Vale suggests.
“I have tried,” I snap. “She’s impossible.”
“And you’re so easy to live with?” Sloan counters, raising a brow. “Besides, it’s not your house.”
Good point. But the last thing I need is her bath gel hoarding space in my shower, that delicious strawberry scent bringing back all the memories I’ve worked years to bury—like kissing the spot next to her earlobe or nuzzling my face into the curve of her neck.
I cross my arms. “As long as she’s here, I’m going to lock myself in my room—pretend she doesn’t exist.”
“Let us know how that works out,” Vale says with a grin. “By the way, she’ll be here any minute.”
“For the party?” I ask.
“Rourke invited her,” Sloan says. “And she said yes.”
“That dirtbag,” I mutter under my breath before downing a cup of punch in one gulp.
I need to pretend that Rourke doesn’t make me want to chuck this cup at him like a football—preferably between the eyes. We’ve never gotten along on the ice because we’re too similar, both competitive and unwilling to back down. It’s like trying to skate alongside my own worst impulses. But the thought of him flirting with her? It’s inexcusable.
For the next twenty minutes, I fume in a corner, rehearsing a mental reel of snarky comments to drive her straight to her room and away from Rourke. My plan of attack feels bulletproof—until she walks in looking like a gorgeous snow angel Santa delivered just to torment me. She’s wearing an off-the-shoulder sweater so distracting, it might as well be a weapon.
Tearing my eyes away isn’t an option. I feel like a cartoon character whose eyes bug out and tongue lolls sideways out of his mouth the second he sees a pretty girl. Her eyes meet mine across the room, and I do the only thing I can think of. I scowl.
Nice one, Leo. Way to drive her away.
I open my mouth to say something, and Rourke walks between us, ruining everything.
“Hey, Victoria,” he says, swooping in with that stupid grin of his.
I can’t stop the low growl that comes out of my mouth. There’s no way I want him anywhere near her tonight. Before I can intervene, Rourke and the others rope her into a game of charades, leaving me stuck in the corner, watching as they have the time of their lives. As soon as the round ends, she excuses herself, then bypasses Rourke to head straight for her luggage. She attempts to haul two suitcases upstairs, but doesn’t make it past the second step before finally giving up on the heavier bag.
I jump out of my seat and sprint toward the remaining luggage before Rourke, grabbing the bag and following her upstairs.
When I reach the top, she eyes me like I’m stealing her stuff. “What are you doing?”
I shrug. “Can’t a guy be helpful, or is that a crime?”
She blinks. “No, it’s... fine. Thanks,” she says stiffly. “I can take it now.”
I hand it off to her, and then stand there with my hands in my pockets, feeling like an idiot. I didn’t have a plan for what I was going to say next, and it’s painfully obvious.
She pulls the luggage into her room, and I stop at the doorway, leaning against the frame as I fold my arms across my chest. Crossing the threshold feels like stepping over a line I shouldn’t.
She frowns when she notices I’m still here. “Do you... need something?” she asks slowly.
“Nope,” I say, trying to play it cool. “Just wondered how long you’re going to be staying.”
“Not sure yet.” She hauls a suitcase onto her bed, then glances at me again. “Any more questions?”
I shake my head, but still don’t move.
She shifts on her feet as she fights with the luggage zipper. “Listen, I know this living arrangement is awkward. For what it’s worth, I didn’t know you were here. Sloan told me after I’d brought my stuff over.”
I raise a brow. “And if you had known?”
She shrugs. “I might’ve reconsidered.”
“Well, you still can,” I say, giving her one last out. “It’s not too late.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll leave as soon as my apartment is fixed.” She struggles with the zipper before it finally releases. “Honestly, I thought you’d have your own place. You don’t seem like the social type.”
I let out a laugh that sounds more like a grunt. “Maybe I’ve changed. When I played for other teams, I lived by myself, and it always felt really lonely.”
She looks at me for a second before taking a few shirts out of her suitcase.
What I don’t tell her is the less acceptable answer—most of my spare cash has gone to Tina’s rehab bills. Even my adoptive parents don’t know about it. They sacrificed everything—working long hours, scraping by to fund my hockey dreams while Tina racked up debt and her alcohol problem spiraled. I didn’t make this decision only for social reasons—I made it for practical ones, too.
“Well, I’m not here to ruin your life,” she says, her tone cool. “Dating or otherwise.” She turns back to stashing her gear like she can organize her way out of this conversation.
I drag a hand through my hair. “I don’t mean to sound like I don’t want you here... but you couldn’t find somewhere else?” Sure, I can handle flirting with her during practice, but how will we survive under one roof? We won’t —that much is certain.
She rifles through her suitcase. “It’s New Year’s Eve, Leo. Hotels are full, it’s snowing—which never happens here—and I don’t exactly have options,” she says, stacking clothes in the dresser. “But you’ve made your point. You don’t want me here. I get it. Loud and clear.” She slams a sweater into the drawer with more force than necessary.
No wonder she dumped me. I was probably just as annoying then.
I rub a hand over my jaw. “Listen, I’m sorry,” I say softly. “I just don’t understand why you wouldn’t ask your parents for help.”
“It’s complicated.” She sighs and tosses a shirt back into her suitcase. “I tried to move out on my own after college. Mom had managed my career for so long, and it was suffocating. It didn’t help that I started falling in competitions around the same time. With every mistake, I lost championships and sponsorship opportunities. When my parents found out I wasn’t keeping up with my bills, they offered to pay for my coach, and Dad arranged for me to use the Ice House rink during the team’s off-hours. It’s the only way I could afford to make it work on my own. But I can’t ask them for help now without feeling like I... failed .”
I narrow my eyes, sensing there’s more she’s not saying. “So you didn’t really want to move to Sully’s Beach?”
She pauses. “It would’ve been easier not to...” Her eyes flick to mine for a moment too long, and I know exactly what she means: me . I’m the reason it’s hard for her to be here. Her move back, my position on the Crushers—it all feels like one giant mistake. I’ve spent years trying to erase her from my memory, yet here she is, unpacking her life in the room right next to mine. For the last six months, I didn’t even realize she was practically in my backyard. And I didn’t want to know because I was trying to pretend she didn’t exist.
She sits on the edge of the bed. “Why did you join the Crushers?” she asks, clearly steering the conversation away from us.
“I needed a fresh start, and they were building something new. Tate and the MacPherson twins came the same year, and things started looking up. Then your dad took over, and I avoided asking about you, figured you didn’t want to hear from me. I’m just surprised we didn’t run into each other sooner.”
“I thought it would be awkward, so I made sure we wouldn’t,” she says, looking away quickly, fiddling with the hem of her sweater. “But now that I’m here, it would be nice if we could at least pretend we’re friends.”
“You want to be friends?” I ask incredulously. What a joke. We can’t even skate together without bickering.
She winces. “Then maybe just a truce? We could set some rules to help us get along while I’m here. You won’t even notice I’m around.”
“Not notice?” I scoff. “That’s impossible.” Even when I’m trying to ignore her, she’s taking up space in my mind. The feel of her skin on mine. The way she fits into my arms. I’ve done everything I can to forget those things.
She glances up at me in surprise. “You notice?”
“Of course, I do,” I say, my voice low. Her eyes widen, and I look away before she realizes what that tiny sliver of hope does to me. “A truce is all I can offer. Friendship is off the table. Might as well make that clear now.” I cross my arms and see the light dim in her eyes. “But I could pretend to be your friend as long as you stop bossing me around.”
“Fair enough. But it’s not nearly as fun as annoying you.” A smile tugs at her lips.
“One question before I agree,” I say, hesitating for a beat. “How do you feel about Rourke?”
She looks over her shoulder as she hangs a blouse in the closet. “Why do you want to know?”
“So I won’t be tempted to punch him if he bothers you,” I admit.
She smooths the wrinkles from the blouse. “He’s not bothering me.” Then she turns around. “But in case you’re wondering, I’m not interested in Rourke.”
I keep my face guarded, but inside I’m secretly celebrating. “Good to know,” I finally say. “But that doesn’t solve the problem of you living here. I think we need to create some rules. Something to make sure that we don’t cross any lines...”
Her brow creases slightly. “Something that could jeopardize our skating partnership?”
I nod. “Anything that could make it hard—for either one of us.” If I’m going to live and work with her, boundary lines are essential. A truce doesn’t make us friends. But if I’m not careful, those guardrails might just turn into invitations, and I’ll lose every bit of control I’m trying to hang on to.
“What kind of rules?” She moves toward me while I keep my distance in her doorway.
“You’re not allowed in my bedroom,” I say. “It’s my personal space. Got it?”
“Okay,” she says, stopping next to her bed. “I won’t come in unless I’m invited.”
“You won’t be invited,” I shoot back, making it clear how it’s to be between us. “I think it’s best that way.”
“Me too,” she says, then glances at my feet. “Which means your toes are over the line.”
I sigh and back up a step.
She crosses her arms, pleased with herself for catching me breaking rule number one. “Any more rules?”
“We can’t be alone in the house together.”
“Because you don’t trust me?” she asks, lifting an eyebrow.
“Does it matter why?” I don’t want to answer that question because I already know the answer: I don’t trust myself. “Next rule—you can’t walk around here in pajamas.”
“So you’d rather I wear a suit of armor?” she asks dryly.
“It would be preferable,” I answer.
“Okay, but define pajamas?”
I roll my eyes. “Seriously? Pajamas isn’t a sufficient answer?”
She shakes her head.
“None of those little tank tops-and-shorts sets.”
Her eyes flick toward mine, and I know she remembers. She used to wear them as loungewear, and technically, it covered everything appropriately. But they still drove me crazy back then. “And one more thing... always wear pants.”
Her mouth drops. “Of course I always wear pants. What kind of person do you think I am?”
“A person who likes to steal men’s shirts,” I say. And wear them without pants on underneath. I remember numerous shirts missing from my closet back in college. “You dirty little thief.”
She scoffs but doesn’t argue because she knows it’s true. “Anything else?” She’s clearly lost whatever hope she had for this arrangement.
If we’re never alone, she’s always fully dressed, and she stays out of my room, then maybe I can keep my head on straight and survive. “I was going to say no touching, but that might be tricky since we have to on the ice.”
“An unfortunate part of our partnership,” she agrees with a mock-serious nod. “But what about if we brush by each other in the hall, or reach for the same glass at the same time? What if we touch by accident as friends ?” She does air quotes with her fingers just to make her point. Her eyes dance, and I know she’s testing me, pushing to see how far she can go, to see if harmless touching really bothers me. Spoiler alert: when it comes to her, it does.
I shove my hands into my pockets. “I think we just use common sense, Victoria.”
“What if I don’t know?” she asks, tilting her head like she’s genuinely pondering it.
“You’ll know,” I reply, wanting this conversation to be over.
“What about hugging?” she presses. “Or, say, if we’re playing Twister and our legs touch?”
“Twister? Seriously? Do you really think we’re going to play Twister together?” Just mentioning it brings up too many visual images I can’t unsee.
“On New Year’s Eve, anything can happen,” she insists.
She has a point. I can already hear the rowdy crowd downstairs gearing up for a wild night. Knowing my teammates, they’d pull out the Twister mat just to torture me.
“Fine,” I say in exasperation. “Anything is okay in public, as friends .” I mimic her air quotes from earlier.
“And behind closed doors...” She trails off, letting the question hang between us.
“We’re not friends,” I finish, just as I intended.
Her lips press into a line as she turns back to her suitcase.
What I can’t say—and what I so desperately want to—is that behind closed doors, I could never just be her friend. She’s so much more than that.
She pulls out a tank top-and-shorts set, neatly laying it on her bed like she wants me to regret every rule I just made.
One quick look at it and I already do.
“This is all I brought for pajamas,” she says apologetically. “But I won’t wear it outside this room because of the rules .”
I flinch at her words. She’s going to kill me with these stupid rules. “Don’t you need something warmer than that? It’s thirty degrees outside.” I rub the back of my neck, trying not to think of how I could heat her up just by wrapping my arms around her.
She shrugs, then gives me that little grin she knows will be my undoing. “I would steal a sweatshirt from your closet, but I’ve already been called a dirty little thief once today.”
Then she smiles like she knows she’s already won this round.
Unfortunately, she’s not wrong.