18. victoria
EIGHTEEN
victoria
L eo tips his water glass to his lips, never taking his eyes off me.
“Hey, buddy, better not drink too much just yet,” I joke, knowing Leo has no problem tolerating a few drinks.
“I’m not the one who should be worried about it,” he mutters.
Sherrie turns on the TV mounted in the corner with the trivia questions. “Okay, who wants to take the first question?” Rourke asks.
He looks at Leo who just shrugs. “Ladies first.”
The question scrolls across the screen: What is the only Grand Slam tennis tournament played on a clay surface?
Sloan looks at me impatiently. “Come on, Victoria, you know this.”
I bite my lip. Unfortunately, I know almost nothing about tennis. “Wimbledon?”
Sloan and Jaz groan. “French Open,” Rourke answers for me.
“Wimbledon is grass,” Leo answers, looking frustrated that I missed it. Shouldn’t he be glad I lost the first one? Doesn’t he want to prove me wrong?
Jaxon places a shot glass in front of me. At least Sherrie was kind enough to only fill it halfway.
Leo’s concerned gaze meets mine from across the table. I know he wants me to give up, but that feels cowardly.
“Bottoms up!” I say, lifting the glass and swallowing it in one go, which I instantly regret. My esophagus burns like I just drank battery acid.
I cough, then clear my throat, before sitting up straighter. “See? I’m fine,” I say breezily.
“You don’t look fine,” he says.
“I can handle one drink.” A hiccup escapes my lips, and Leo lifts an eyebrow skeptically.
Sloan and Jaz shovel popcorn in their mouths, clearly enjoying the show at our end of the table.
The next trivia question appears on the screen. Which NFL team holds the record for the most Super Bowl appearances?
“Why does he get all the easy ones?” I mutter under my breath. A knot of anxiety tangles in my stomach.
“New England Patriots,” he answers. If Leo wins and chooses Miss Sultry Eyes, I’ll have to make a dash to the bathroom, just to avoid seeing him kiss her. Underneath, I have a feeling that’s exactly what he wants—to prove that if we’re going to play games, he’s always going to win.
Even if I beat him, who would I want to kiss other than Leo? My eyes sweep over the options, and all of them feel totally wrong, except for Leo. When we were dating, we’d play these games against each other just for fun. About the time I was going to lose, he’d pull me on his lap, bury his face in my hair, and forfeit our match with a string of kisses. It never occurred to me that letting me win was actually an act of love.
But the way he’s looking at me now—with a mixture of frustration and concern—I can’t figure out if he’s trying to teach me a lesson or make me pay for my stupidity.
“You’re up,” he says.
I give him a confident smile, praying for an easy question.
Which country has won the most World Cup titles?
“England!” I answer.
Sloan grimaces. Jaz covers her eyes. Jaxon sets another shot in front of me.
“Nice try, but it’s Brazil,” Rourke says.
Leo shakes his head. “Do you want to give up now? Because you can.”
“Never,” I say, holding up my half-filled glass. “I’ll go down with the ship.”
I down it like I’m the queen of lost causes. Then I slam my shot glass on the table. All the guys cheer, except Leo, who’s still watching me with that frustrated look that’s begging me to forfeit.
When his question comes up, about golf of all things, he answers it easily, and the knot in my stomach only tangles more.
“Next question, Roger,” I say.
“You mean Rourke,” Leo corrects.
“Whatever,” I say, trying not to seem like I care.
The next question is a hockey one, and I want to pull my hair out. Even though my dad is a coach, I actively avoided all things hockey because it reminded me of Leo.
Which NHL player holds the record for the most career points?
“You should know this one,” Leo says with a pleading look. It almost makes me believe he wants me to get it right. But why would he want that, when he’s playing to win?
“Are you trying to trick me?” I ask, frowning.
“Why would I trick you?”
“Because you want to win,” I say.
“I don’t want to win, Vic. Not if it means you lose.”
“What?” My stomach shifts, and my thoughts feel lodged in mud. Leo doesn’t want me to lose?
The answer is on the tip of my tongue, but it’s too bad my tongue has a fifty-pound weight attached to it. “It’s Wayne... Wayne Somebody. ”
The timer on the clock buzzes, and Leo looks gut-punched.
Sloan and Jaz groan. “She was half right,” Jaz pleads to Rourke. “It should count!”
As the rest of the table discusses whether I deserve another shot of punishment, I glance over at Leo, whose eyes haven’t left me since I answered.
“How could you not know that one?” he says, looking distressed. “Your dad’s a hockey coach.”
I lean toward him, lowering my voice. “Yeah, well, how could you tell me I was the only one for you and then, a few weeks later, date someone else?”
His eyes widen, and for a second, he looks too shocked to speak. “When did you see me with another girl?”
“In college, a few weeks after we broke up. You thought I didn’t know about her.” I laugh bitterly. “I knew then... those were just words I wanted to believe.”
“We’re not having this conversation now,” he mutters, his lips tightening into a firm line.
“You’re right, we’re not,” I say, scooting my chair back and heading to the women’s bathroom.
“Victoria . . .” Leo calls.
Maybe it’s two half-shots of regret that’s making me walk away now, but I won’t let him see me cry.
I bolt into the restroom, hot tears burning my cheeks as I splash water on my face. I promised myself I’d never tell him that.
My stomach is roiling, but this time it feels like it’s more from Leo than the drinks. I thought I could prove something to him tonight, show him I can be friends with him, but I think I’ve only done the opposite: made myself realize I can’t extinguish this torch for him.
I lock myself in a stall, dropping my head in my hands as another woman takes the stall next to mine.
I blow my nose into the ridiculously thin toilet paper, hoping I can pull myself together before I finish the game.
“You okay over there?” the woman next to me gently asks.
“Not really,” I say before I can pull it back in. It feels comforting to get it off my chest.
“I saw you rush in here and you looked upset,” she says. “Sometimes it helps to share things with someone who doesn’t have a dog in the fight. And I’m definitely more like a peaceful poodle.” She steps out of the stall and I peek through the crack and see her washing her hands. The woman looks like a grandmother—mid-sixties, greying bobbed hair, and a jean jacket with a God Bless America pin on it.
I laugh to myself while blowing my nose again. “Well, I told him something I’d promised myself I would never share.”
“Are you married?”
“Thank goodness, no,” I say, even though I think part of me would be better off if we were. It’d be easier if we just gave in to our feelings rather than constantly pushing each other away.
“I’ve fallen for someone—a hockey player—and even though I really like him, there’s so much history between us. Plus, I’m too stubborn to keep my mouth shut.”
From the crack in the door, I see her head bobbing in agreement. I suddenly get a pang of wanting someone like that in my life, a person who will listen to me instead of tell me what I did wrong, like my mother always does.
“Sounds just like me,” she says. “Too stubborn for my own good.”
“Exactly!” I say, my lips feeling looser than ever. “It doesn’t help that I’m down on my luck.”
“How so?”
“My figure skating partner got injured... it’s kind of a long story.”
I hear her gasp outside the door. “Wait, are you Victoria Jenkins?”
I pause, my whole body tensing. She knows me? The last thing I need is to discuss my personal life with a fan, but I’ve already revealed too much. “Are you going to tell anyone?” I ask weakly. “Because I’d rather we keep this between us.”
“No, honey,” she says. “I’ve been a big fan for years and heard about what happened to your last partner. If you need a break, I might actually have a lead for you.” The woman rifles through her purse, then slips a card under my stall. “My son owns Pro Ice Gear—ever heard of them?”
I take the card and stare at it like it’s fairy dust from my magical godmother. For years, I’ve wanted to represent them. I’ve just never been offered the chance.
“Of course I have,” I say. “They’re the largest supplier of athletic wear for skaters.”
“I’ve been telling my son he should offer you a sponsorship,” the woman says.
“Me?” I gasp. “Why?” I can’t believe anyone would want me after three years of failure.
“Because I like your fire,” she says, turning to the mirror and reapplying a cotton candy–pink lipstick. “You don’t let anyone keep you down. And if you’re dating a hockey player, that’s even better.”
Dating? Where did she get that idea? I only said I shouldn’t fall for him. “Well, we’re not exactly... a thing, ” I clarify.
“It doesn’t matter. If you’re together, that’s publicity gold. I’m sure Pro Ice Gear will want you both and offer you a sweet deal.”
It seems almost too good to be true. Which means it probably is. “Both of us?” I say, wincing, because I know that’s impossible.
“My son’s had this commercial concept for years—two athletes who are dating in real life agreeing to represent the brand together.”
How in the world am I going to convince Leo to accept this offer with me, especially when we’re not really a couple?
I peek open my stall and hand her back the card, shaking my head. “I’m not sure if I can convince him, even though this would be a dream come true for me.”
She pushes the card back. “Keep it. You figure out a way to get him to say yes—to both the sponsorship and to working out your problems. If it’s love, he’ll agree.” Then she gives me a wink before leaving the bathroom.