5. victoria
FIVE
victoria
A s I enter the back of the ice arena, the smell of sweat hits me, a reminder I’m in hockey territory. I peek around the corner and see Leo’s teammates are still on the ice, generally acting like they’re at war and looking like a bunch of rowdy pirates while doing it. I stealthily enter through one of the spectator exits in the back and see Leo sitting gloomily off to the side. The way his mouth twists into a scowl tells me exactly how much he hates being benched. This is pure torture for him, much like wearing control top pantyhose is for me, and my heart squeezes in sympathy. Not much, mind you, because he’s the same person who made me “beg” him to be his partner, and I’m never forgiving him for that humiliation. But I know what it’s like to want to compete and not be able to. That’s been my life ever since my skating partner got injured.
He glances my way, and I immediately duck behind the seats. I don’t want Leo to know I’m eavesdropping on him before our practice, which means I need to stay undercover until it’s time for me to actually show up for our real practice time. Never mind the fact that I have exactly zero spy skills. After our last disastrous practice together, in which I essentially landed on top of him like a plane on a runway, I’ve become slightly (okay, obsessively) curious about Leo’s hockey career. Turns out, he’s a big deal—like, a really big deal—and I had no idea, because I avoid all hockey news like a port-a-potty in August. Apparently, Leo got chosen as one of fifty athletes for “America’s Hottest Athlete” in last month’s Star Report, which probably made his already inflated ego the size of the Goodyear blimp.
Although I didn’t look at the photos (because seeing a shirtless Leo might make me question my sanity since I’m the one who broke things off), I did find out that he is projected to move on to the NHL in the next two years, which you’d think I’d know since my dad is his coach.
But if there’s one thing I’ve stayed away from since our breakup, it’s hockey. I’ve watched zero games, refused to google his name, and I sure as heck didn’t show up at this rink anytime close to the Crushers’ practice time. Over my dead body was I going to chance running into Leo Anderson.
Never mind the fact that when I attended the University of Michigan, where we dated for six glorious months, I was his biggest fan, wearing his jersey to every game and screaming his name like some kind of insane hockey groupie. My goal was to make him smile at least once per game—a feat I was successful at—since he pretty much wears a permanent scowl all day, every day. I even kept a secret smile tally, which I never showed him, but it had the same effect as shiny gold stars on my ego. Every time I made him smile—on or off the ice—it felt like a victory, and I added a tally to my list. It was a game I invented—keeping score of the rare moments he let his guard down. My highly classified list started with:
Saying a slightly inappropriate joke about Leo’s abs = 1 point
Making a weird face at him during the game = 1 point
Wishing him good luck before his game and then sneaking in a well-placed butt slap in front of his teammates = 1 point. Bonus point for maximum embarrassment and zero chance of him living it down.
Even though part of me is tempted to see if I can make him smile just for fun, I know that would be like playing with fire. Under no circumstances can I become addicted to trying to make that man smile. If I do, his smile will be the death of any resistance I put up against him. For ten long weeks, I must stay firmly resolute against all smile attempts, because that man could weaken even the strongest will—and possibly all my good judgment—with just one smirk.
My only hope is to remember that Leo despises me for what I’m sure he feels was an unfair ending to our relationship. Because I basically did the worst thing a person could do: I dumped him via text, without notice, right before a big game. It was so inexcusable, he would laugh in my face if I asked him for forgiveness now.
What I can’t tell him is that I had reasons—very valid ones—that will go with me to the grave. So in the meantime, I have to survive him looking at me like I’m the most horrible person who ever lived, which wouldn’t be so bad if I was truly heartless.
Instead, my plan is to pretend I hate him while simultaneously smothering these irrational feelings of desire that keep bubbling up inside me. Not only is this going to be next to impossible, but when I crashed into him on the ice, it’s like something got knocked loose inside me. One second, I had my emotions locked down; the next, our bodies collided, and suddenly, I remembered what it was like to have him near me, setting off a slow, simmering heat that hasn’t stopped since.
Now, here I am, spying on Leo so I can get my scowling-hockey-player fix for the day, without having to pretend that I hate him. Plus, when it comes to Leo, I’m like my grandma with a gossip magazine. I have a million questions about why this new Leo seems extra grumpy and whether he has a girlfriend I don’t know about.
I slowly peek over the seats just as Leo’s face cuts my way. His eyes narrow, and I dive onto my stomach behind a row of seats. Because if there’s one thing I know about Leo, his laser-sharp eyes can spot me anywhere. I know this from experience—no matter where he was on the ice, he could always find me in the crowd.
If I can just avoid any awkward run-ins today, I might get through this without making things weird, which means I need to crawl away from this spot before Leo discovers I’m spying on him.
I slowly army-crawl across the sticky floor, which, as it turns out, feels like the worst idea I’ve ever had. Heaven knows how many beers have been spilled on this floor, but I’m willing to endure this utterly gross humiliation if it means Leo doesn’t catch me.
I barely have time to breathe before I hear feet approaching my row. I freeze and pray that whoever it is will walk right by the crazed woman sprawled on her belly.
“What are you doing down there?”
I glance up. Leo is standing at the end of the row, his brow pulled into a frown.
A prickle of fear spiders down my back. “I was just looking for...” I desperately search the floor, my eyes landing on a wad of gum balled up in a wrapper. “My gum!” I exclaim, pointing at the silver wrapper. “I dropped it.”
Leo hesitates as his eyes flick from the gum to me, like he’s deciding if I’m really telling the truth.
“If that’s your gum, why don’t you pick it up?” he says in a flat tone that tells me he doesn’t believe me.
I stare at him like he’s grown three horns in his head. No, he did not just ask me to pick up someone’s old gum. What’s next, asking me to lick the floor?
He crosses his arms and waits. “You said it was the reason you were down there, right?”
“Fine,” I say, my voice withering. “I will.”
If there’s one thing I hate, it’s used gum someone dropped for unsuspecting people like me to step on. As gross as touching old gum is, there’s one thing I hate even more— losing. No way am I letting Leo think I was spying on him. If he wants to make this about a piece of gum, fine . If he’s throwing down the gauntlet, you’d better believe I’m picking it up.
I inch forward and hold my forefinger and thumb out like I’m picking up a used Kleenex.
That darn Leo Anderson! I’d rather pick up a dirty tissue than used gum, and he knows it.
I gingerly grab the gum by the corner of the silver wrapper, being careful not to touch the wad inside and dangle it in the air. “See? My gum.” I attempt a weak smile as my stomach roils.
Leo leans toward the gum and studies it intensely. “You know, it looks pretty fresh. You should chew it some more.”
“Uh, no, thank you,” I say, while trying not to retch. “I was going to throw it away.” Leo knows I have a weak stomach and will dry heave over anything that resembles partially chewed food.
“That looks like perfectly good gum,” he says. “It would be a waste to throw it away.” He pauses, and I swear his mouth flinches in amusement. “Unless, of course, that’s not your gum.”
I clamp my lips as my nostrils flare in disgust. The dirty scoundrel is calling my bluff! If I refuse to chew this gum, he’ll know I was spying on him, and I’ll have lost this game.
That’s it. Time to dig deep, rally my strength, and accept that my dignity may not survive this. I carefully unwrap the waded-up gum, and stare hard at the misshapen grey blob. The questionable germs on this will probably kill me, but at least I’ll die with the satisfaction of knowing I didn’t back down.
I hold the gum at the edge of my lips, but my mouth refuses to budge.
Leo lifts a lazy eyebrow. “I don’t have all day.”
I stare hard at his smug face, inwardly cursing him in my head.
“All right, then,” I say weakly, “I’ll just... chew my gum.” Then I drop the gum in my mouth, and chew so painfully slow, my eyes water, and I think I might pass out from disgust.
“Was I right? Still fresh?” he asks, his eyes dancing.
“Very,” I grind out, while trying not to throw up in my mouth.
“Good,” he says with a satisfied nod. “I thought so.” Then he does one more thing before he turns around. He smirks.
A zing of victory rockets through me—not from winning Leo’s dare, but because I did something that makes me unreasonably proud. I made Leo smile. Which means I can add another mark to the smile tally.
It’s my last thought before I rush to the bathroom.