Chapter 1 #2
A short laugh escapes me as I drag my finger over the condensation on the glass. “Does that line normally work for you?”
He chuckles, shaking his head, allowing me to catch a glimpse of silver around his neck before it disappears beneath the collar of his shirt.
“Usually, but lucky for you, I’m a fan of the coy act too.”
“It’s not coy if I’m actually not interested,” I point out, but I’m entertained at the very least by this entire encounter. Or maybe I’m lying to myself because I don’t want to want him.
Jack leans forward, and I find myself angling toward him as well, waiting to hear what comes from him next. It’s definitely the alcohol talking now. “Darlin’, you’re making me look bad in front of my friends,” he teases, and I laugh, hating that I’m enjoying this—even just a little bit.
“Boo hoo.”
His dimple winks at me as he smiles, lowering his voice.
“My buddies will never let me hear the end of it if I walk away from you without a kiss, but I have a feeling your friend won’t let you leave either unless she thinks something happened between us.
So, what do you say to getting out of your comfort zone and saving me from public humiliation? ”
As much as I don’t want to admit Jack’s probably right, I’m afraid he is.
I know if I really want to put my foot down, Macy and I would leave in a heartbeat, but at the very least, I don’t think I’d hate kissing Jack.
My body is reacting to him more than it has to anyone in a long time, and kissing Jack doesn’t mean trusting him.
There are a hundred reasons why I shouldn’t kiss him, but maybe I don’t want to think for once. I can blame this on the alcohol tomorrow.
“One shot, buddy. Do your worst,” I say as he steps off the stool to tower over me. I pull my lower lip into my mouth, trying not to gasp when Jack lifts his hand to tuck some of my long, dark hair out of my face.
His blue eyes drop to my mouth, and his touch skates along the back of my neck, angling my head up to meet him. “I wasn’t pulling a line on you when I said you’re beautiful.”
“Sorry if I don’t exactly believe yo—” Jack silences me by slanting his mouth over mine, and my eyes flutter shut while I lean into him. I’m highly aware of how his fingertips are gently holding my head as Jack’s lips move unhurried against mine.
I rest my hand on his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin through the soft material of his shirt as Jack sweeps his tongue over my bottom lip. I open my mouth, letting his tongue explore further as I respond by curling my fingers into his shirt, tugging him closer.
He rumbles a delicious sound from the back of his throat, and it’s a great kiss.
Maybe better than great, but it’s over before I can decide, as Jack pulls away a few moments later.
“How was my worst?” he asks, oozing confidence, but I don’t miss the way his voice wobbles, telling me he enjoyed the kiss as much as I did.
I look at my hand, still gripping his shirt, making a show of removing it to wipe my mouth on the back of my hand, as if it’s enough to erase the electric feeling of our kiss. “Solid three.”
“You’re killing me, Alex.” Jack’s head tips back as a laugh escapes him, his handsome features crinkling with joy, and I can’t help the smile that forms on my face.
“Sorry, Jack. Maybe you’ll do better with the next poor girl you solicit at the bar to keep your friends from making fun of you.”
His thumb gently strokes the back of my neck, sending shivers down my spine, but Jack catches me by surprise when he leans in to graze his lips over mine once more.
“Can I get your number? Maybe I can convince you I can do better than a three.” His head dips again, and his breath tickles my ear as Jack’s deep voice tempts me. “In all areas.”
Yeah, I have no doubt. I’m afraid to let myself wonder if this is what kissing Jack feels like, then how much better would everything else be with him compared to my previous experiences? Yet, it’s also a stark reminder of how different I am, because I have no business entertaining this idea.
“My number’s reserved for men who earn at least a seven, which makes this a one-time thing.”
He shakes his head, taking a step back as if somehow understanding the thoughts running through my mind. “Guess it makes me selfish to say I hope I’ll see ya again, Al.”
“Don’t hold your breath,” I joke, and he walks back to his friends, his shoulders shaking with more laughter.
My phone ringing at full blast pulls me out of my dreamless sleep, and I fumble for it blindly in the dark room. It slips out of my grasp, clattering to the floor.
“Alondra, answer your fucking phone before my head explodes,” Macy groans from her spot in the bed next to me.
“Maybe you should have slept in your bed,” I groan when I finally grasp where it fell. “Hello?” I answer, my head beginning to throb.
“Good morning to you too,” my dad says, and I wipe my eyes with my hand, sitting up. My blackout curtains are working a little too well.
“What time is it?”
He sighs, his disappointment clear, which is exactly what I need this morning. “Eight. I need you to stop by my office this morning,” he says, and I bite back my groan. I have no interest in going to his office.
“Seriously? I have plans with—”
“It’s not optional, Al.” Great, he’s using his coach tone with me, and when he’s like this, it’s not worth arguing.
“I’ll be there in an hour.”
“The team will be in at nine thirty, but we should be done by then.”
“Got it.” I hang up quickly, and the sound of Macy’s snoring fills the room again.
I wish I could fall asleep that fast. I lie there for a moment, recalling how Jack’s lips felt against mine.
Completely sober, I know what a bad idea it was kissing him, but I also can’t deny it was an amazing kiss.
Far better than the three I told him it was.
But sober me remembers where I recognize him from, and it’s the class we have together.
Jack has never noticed me before, so hopefully our brief kiss doesn’t change anything.
I drag myself out of bed to shower, regretting the shots more than I did last night as I wash in the dark, going through the motions of muscle memory.
I wince when I have to flip them on, but I’m glad I did because the raccoon eyes I’m rocking from not taking the five minutes to remove my makeup last night are horrendous.
The best I can muster right now is semi-presentable, and I hope Dad can’t tell I’m hungover.
It’s like a sixth sense for him after all the years he’s been coaching at Wilder University, he always seems to know when I’ve been drinking.
I falter as I enter the building where I used to spend every day, but by the time I reach Dad’s office, I’ve composed myself. He’s already sitting at his desk, flipping through his prized playbook, but he at least smiles when he sees me. “I feel like this is the first time I’ve seen you in weeks.”
Because it is. I’m surprised he noticed with how busy I’m sure he’s been with pre-season games.
I shrug, offering him a small smile as I sit in the chair on the other side of his desk. “I’ve been busy with class. Macy and her boyfriend broke up again, so we’ve been nursing her broken heart.”
He raises an eyebrow at me, and I probably shouldn’t have said anything, but my hangover is giving me looser lips than normal. “Have you been going to parties?”
“Of course. Every single night, and I get shit-faced at all of them,” I reply, my voice dripping with sarcasm, and Dad’s face is priceless.
“Al—”
“I’m joking, Dad. You don’t need to lecture me like I’m one of your players,” I reply, playing with the cuff of my sweater.
He frowns, and I know I shouldn’t have said it.
Dad will never admit he puts them over me, but there’s no denying the truth.
I can’t act entirely innocent, though. Bradley took advantage of the cracks in my relationship with him and turned them into chasms. “You’re not one of my players. You’re my daughter.”
Funny. Where was he during my last skating competition, then?
“What am I here for?” I ask, the smile falling from my face.
Dad rubs his face, and I wonder if pretending everything is fine is as exhausting for him as it is for me. “I wanted to hear how things are going. Are you liking classes?”
The hair on the back of my neck stands up because I can feel the direction this conversation is going to take. He’s going to ask if I’ve reconsidered skating. I have a voicemail on my phone from my old coach asking the same question.
“I’ve got friends. Classes are fine. I’m fine,” I reply, feeling my headache start to rear its ugly head.
“Coach Presley called me the other day and asked if you were still keeping up with your training? He’s held your spot for you in case you’ve changed your mind.”
I cross my arms over my chest as I sink lower into the chair, looking away.
The thought of stepping on the ice is unbearable.
It’s not like I haven’t tried. “I quit skating. I haven’t stepped on the ice sinc—” I’m interrupted by the sound of guys laughing in the locker room right outside the office, and I take that as my cue to leave, standing up from the seat.
If anything, I love hockey, but I wish it didn’t take my dad away from me.
I started figure skating as a way to get his attention after Mom wouldn’t let me try hockey, but I stuck with it once I fell in love with the feeling of being on the ice.
It always felt like I was flying, and there wasn’t a better feeling.
In my world of colorful chaos, I was disciplined the moment I stepped on the ice, waking up and spending countless hours training to be the best.
I wanted to prove to my dad that even though I wasn’t playing hockey, I could still be good enough to make him proud.
I know hockey is his job, but I’m his daughter.
I would have thought it meant something, but he still missed more competitions than he made it to.
The moments when Dad was there made up for all the ones he wasn’t, but I can’t help wondering sometimes how different everything might have turned out if he’d been at the competition when I quit.
I haven’t been able to bring myself to step on the ice since then, but I still keep my skates under my bed to make it easy when I sneak out in the middle of the night.
It feels a little pointless, considering I haven’t done anything other than stare at the beautiful, glassy ice every time I mustered the courage this past summer to use the copy of my dad’s key to get into the arena.
I’d sit there for hours, paralyzed by the memories of the last time I skated.
Dad’s asked countless times before now, wanting to know why I quit, but I can’t explain. I don’t know how to make him understand why I accepted a love that left bruises where they wouldn’t be seen. Why I put up with it for as long as I did, at the cost of nearly everything, including myself.
But that was last year.
This year is a blank slate, ready to be painted with a kaleidoscope of colors I hope to find in myself again.
I just haven’t found a way to skate again.
“Alondra, we’re not done here.”
I roll my eyes and pull my braid over my shoulder. “Your team is here, so I think we are, Dad.”
I retreat before he can say anything else, but I collide with a large figure in the doorway.
“Woah, don’t think I’ve seen someone run out of Coach’s office this fast since Baxter had to tell the team we were bag skating.
” Strong hands grip my shoulders, steadying me as everything within me tenses, moving in slow motion when I look up to make eye contact with Jack. “Alex?” he asks, his eyes widening.
Oh fuck. Jack is a fucking hockey player?
“Schultz, get your hands off my daughter,” Dad warns, a surprising bite to his tone, and I step back as Jack’s handsome face pales. His hands fall quickly to his sides as he looks over my head to my dad.
Schultz? As in Jack Schultz?
There’s a reason behind my rule against hockey players, and it’s for my own self-preservation.
“Alex is your daughter?” he asks, and I try to shake my head, internally begging him to shut up.
He has no idea how bad this is, but he won’t be the one in trouble. He’s the golden boy who can’t do anything wrong in my father’s eyes, whereas I’m his greatest disappointment for quitting the one thing that held value to him for no apparent reason.
“Last I checked, I didn’t have a daughter named Alex, but I do have one named Alondra. I’m sorry, how do you know each other, and why do you think her name is Alex?” Dad asks, and Jack looks down at me, his eyes widening with what I can only assume is panic, because I feel the exact same way.
The last thing I need is for Jack to tell my dad I met him at a bar.
“Um, we’re in Comp II English together, and I’m tutoring him. He assumed my name was Alex because I go by Al,” I blurt out, but the only way this works is if Jack doesn’t correct me. I tutored in high school, so it makes it believable.
“She’s tutoring you?” Dad asks, and I look up at Jack, hoping he can snap out of it.
He clamps his jaw shut, nodding. “Yeah. We’ve been meeting every Tuesday and Thursday night to go over what we learned in class the day before,” he replies, and I’m so relieved I think I might cry.
Jack might think I’m insane, especially if he has no reason to need a tutor, but I’m not ready for the lecture I’d get if Dad thinks I’m distracting any of his players, let alone Jack Schultz.
“Exactly. That’s all it is. Tutoring,” I reassure my dad, glancing over my shoulder.
He fixes a serious gaze on me, his eyebrows knit together. “Al, I hope you’re taking this seriously. Our chances at making the Frozen Four drop significantly if Schultz is academically ineligible.”
“She is—we both are,” Jack interrupts, which is better than anything I would’ve said.
This is my very definition of hell.