Chapter 8
Wes
Routines take time.
I’ve repeated this to myself every morning for the last week. I’m on the seventh day of pounding on Thea’s door to wake her up because she stayed up all night on her computer.
Our mornings are filled with awkward silences and her impressively snappy comments. This morning’s drama revolved around wanting to wear a piece of clothing that hadn’t been washed yet because I stupidly thought that a teenage girl knew how to do her laundry.
Thea’s summer with her friends and her hockey team was snatched from her, so I understand her anger.
I’m trying to be patient, but I’m also not the person to lay blame with—that belongs entirely to her mother, who has no access to her phone to be on the receiving end of Thea’s angst. At least we have a break from each other today while Thea goes with a couple of kids from her hockey camp to the beach, and I have a beer league hockey game.
I unlock the rink doors, and my shoulders immediately relax.
The blast of cold air cools my already sweating skin, thanks to the mid-nineties heat wave outside.
The quiet of the rink slows my heart, pushing thoughts of the argument this morning out of my mind.
Hockey was always like this for me—an escape from my responsibilities for a few hours.
That’s my plan for today—forget about Thea and my mom and Spencer and Isla and focus on hockey.
Until I hear music coming from the rink.
I rush toward the ice, worried about who’s here before eight on a Sunday. Did I forget to lock up?
The song grows louder as I approach. It has a punk vibe with strong drum beats, loud guitar riffs, and a female voice dripping with attitude as she sings about sour cherries. My fingers tap against my leg as I approach the figure gliding across the ice.
My stomach falls through the damn floor. Isla Covington.
She skates wildly across the ice, arms punching into the air, her body twisting to the beat of the music.
Her strawberry-blond hair flies loose behind her, her stomach on display in a bright red cutoff top and black leggings.
She moves so quickly, with a combination of attitude and grace that’s impossible to turn away from.
After our interactions this past week, I’m not the least bit surprised that her skating can pack a punch like this. I’m left wondering why the world hasn’t seen it yet.
As the song comes to its conclusion, Isla skates backward toward the corner of the rink, gearing up for a jump.
Her skate digs into the ice, and she propels herself into the air, into what looks like three full spins.
She lands on her right skate and then immediately jumps again, this time for one revolution, but the landing isn’t clean.
She stumbles, flailing her arms for balance, before slamming onto the ice and sliding backwards into the boards.
I’m on the ice, rushing toward her before I can think about the implications of what I’m doing and whether she’d want the help. With sneakers, I can’t move as quickly without losing my footing, but I’ve done this enough times that I’m over to her within seconds.
Isla rights herself slowly, but is still sitting on the ice when I reach her.
“Hey, hey, hey.” I drop to my knees in front of her. “Are you hurt?”
Her lips fall open in surprise. We never set times that she and Spencer could use the rink for practice together or on their own. They both have access to the schedule and keys to the building to come and go as they need.
“I’m fine,” she says as she shifts, lifting herself onto one knee. Her gloved hands land on the ice to steady her. “I mean, I’m out of shape, but otherwise, I’m fine. I’ll have a nasty knee bruise, but nothing I haven’t dealt with before.”
I reach for her on instinct, but stop before making contact. I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking, but watching her fall to the ice sent my heart into my throat.
Isla watches my hand awkwardly retreat from her.
“Do you need help?” I ask, trying to hide the sting of embarrassment flooding my cheeks. She’s set me off kilter again, self-conscious in a way I haven’t been since I was a teenager. I stumble to my feet and stuff my hands into my pockets to avoid further embarrassment.
She uses the boards to hoist herself into a standing position, not bothering to respond to my offer for help. “What are you doing here?” she asks while shaking out her leg.
“What am I doing at the rink I own?”
She rolls her eyes, a tic of hers I like way more than I should. “Oh, do you own this place? I had no idea.”
She hops in place, and I swear I try not to look at her, but my eyes won’t fucking listen to reason.
Her naval piercing glints in the light with the movement, drawing my gaze.
I blame my exhaustion from this morning, a combination of not sleeping well and arguing with a teenage girl. I have no idea how parents handle it.
“Your time’s up on the ice,” I say to redirect my focus and wrest control of this situation. “We’ve got a hockey game scheduled this morning.”
“Is that why you’re here? To play hockey?”
“Yep.”
“What position? No, wait, let me guess. Second line center.”
I scoff. “Center, huh? What makes you think that?”
Isla waves her hand in front of me. “It’s a vibe you give off. Bossy, and all me-me-me. I could also see you being a goalie to mark your territory.”
“Right. Well. Hate to burst the bubble of your supposed hockey knowledge, but I play defense.”
“Which pair?” she asks, trying to identify the level of my talent.
A sharp whistle cuts through the air, followed by a couple of shouts of my name. Some guys from my team sit on the bench, lacing up their skates and getting ready for our game. Our league exists for fun, but that doesn’t mean we aren’t competitive. I hold up a hand to wave, then turn to Isla.
“Stick around and find out, Red,” I tell her, before turning ninety degrees and making my way across the ice to the bench.
Max stands as I approach, knocking his hand into my shoulder when I’m within reach. “Who is that?”
I shrug off his hand, annoyed for a reason that I refuse to admit to myself. Not giving a name to something makes it easier to ignore. The strategy hasn’t failed me yet. “My brother’s new skating partner.”
I follow his sharp, focused gaze to Isla, who still hasn’t left the rink.
She’s skating back and forth in quick bursts, likely testing out her legs after that fall.
I wonder if she’ll stick around to watch the game.
The idea sparks something in my gut, a nervous anticipation I haven’t felt since my college days.
“She’s a smokeshow.” Max’s voice fills with awe. I fight a grimace at his choice of term, but I can relate to that dazed feeling coming over him. Isla brings it out of me, too—always has. “She single?”
“No idea,” I lie.
Isla has no plans for a relationship, which I know because Spencer brain-dumped information about her when he was using me as a sounding board. Sucker that I am, I cataloged every piece of information.
“Hey, boys,” she calls in a sing-song voice as she skates by the bench to exit the rink. Her presence elicits an appreciative whistle from Max and a chorus of hellos from the other guys who’ve appeared in the last few minutes. Isla winks at me before disappearing down the tunnel out of view.
Max scowls in my direction. Little does he know that little gesture of hers was meant to taunt me.
One of my oldest friends, Sam, elbows me in the gut. “You got something going on with her?”
“Fuck off,” I say, shoving his shoulder. “She works for me and is a complete pain in my ass. And she’s Spencer’s new partner.”
“Lucky dude,” Max says, gaze still locked on the tunnel Isla vanished into.
Shame washes over me at the realization that I had the same thought when I saw Spencer and Isla training together the other day.
They’ve been practicing most of their moves off-ice in an area I walk past frequently.
I watched as he lifted Isla into the air every time I passed them, Spence’s hands on her hips to keep her steady, while their coach directed them to make corrections.
I wanted to be him.
I squirt water in Max’s direction. “You think you’ll be able to focus on hockey, or are you too busy fawning over her?”
“Lighten up, man, I can multi-task,” Max murmurs, tapping me on the front of my shoulder before stepping onto the ice.
I wish we were playing on opposing teams, so I could deliver a punishing hit on him.
In the third period, I spot Isla in the small crowd watching us play. A crowd composed of the players’ significant others, their kids, and parents from our community who bring their hockey-playing kids as a weekend activity. Many remain for free-skate, which happens after our games end.
It’s the first game Spence has made it to since moving back. He whistles at the top of his lungs after a particularly nasty hit that I land on the opposing team’s best player. Isla sits beside him, sporting a beanie with a pom-pom on top and a gray sweatshirt.
Why the fuck did I encourage her to stay and watch me play?
That thought screams in my mind when I come out of the locker room after the game to find Max, still in his gear and on the ice, talking to Isla.
Quashing the impulse to interrupt them takes all my strength.
It’s the protective instinct that’s always been in me since I was a kid, standing up for Spencer on the playground and punching Ella’s dickhead boyfriend for making her cry.
“What are you doing here?” I ask Spence, who’s also watching the interaction between Isla and Max.
“What? I can’t watch my brother demolish the competition?”
“I thought you’d be busy with training.”
Spencer nods in Isla’s direction. “Once she’s done eviscerating that guy’s confidence, we’re going to lift some weights. Wanna join us?”
I’m relieved that my brother doesn’t think Isla is into Max, but when Max puts his hand on her arm, my breath catches. It rips away the tiny bit of relief and launches it out of my reach.