Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
SIERRA
HOW DO YOU look your skating partner in the eye when you know what he tastes like? I haven’t figured it out yet, but so far running off to my parents’ house has worked. Poorly.
This past twenty-four hours have not been fun.
Scarlett needed my car for some last-minute meeting she’d been awfully vague about, so she dropped me at my parents’ house last night because I got a tension headache, and I couldn’t tough it out in the dorms. The communal shower is bad enough on a regular day.
So all I did last night was stay warm under my covers with a sleep mask and a pack of ice my dad placed on my head.
We only had one ibuprofen left, and I didn’t want to tell my parents to run to the store.
The thoughts of Dylan Donovan heated my skin so rapidly that I threw the covers off my body. Even as Scarlett asked me about my first day back with Lidia, I couldn’t admit I’d been stupid enough to pounce on him.
Dylan handled my body like he’d know exactly what to do with it, where he’d want it, how he’d want it. Each touch was certain, and ready, boiling over with a neediness that can only be created by constant daydreams. Like he’s thought about me.
I can still feel the phantom movements of his tongue against mine. Hear the gasp that left me when he pulled away. Then the rejection.
But regardless of the dumb decisions I make, skating always comes first. So, for today’s practice, I’ve got my bag packed as I slip on leggings and a zip-up before I head downstairs. The smell of something sweet wafts in the air, but it sours the moment I hear a familiar voice.
“Mrs. Romanova, I think I’m in love—with your bliny,” Dylan says, shoving another forkful into his mouth. The low rumble of his voice makes my body feel like it’s getting a reward.
My mom giggles. “Oh, you are too sweet! And I’ve told you to call me Mila.” I stare in disbelief.
“Mom?”
Their heads turn to find me at the threshold of the kitchen, and I ignore the gaze that feels like a laser, coming from the guy sitting at my spot in the breakfast nook.
“Ah, there she is. Sierra, you never told me Dylan here has been such a good friend of yours at Dalton. He even brought over your assignment.”
The paper she’s pointing to on the island is not my assignment. I’m pretty certain he just pulled a random sheet from his pile of classwork. “Yeah.” I force a smile. “He’s great.”
“And he told me he’s a figure skater too.”
“Did he now?” I grit through my teeth. “That’s lovely.”
I haven’t told my parents Dylan’s my partner and that we’re skating again.
Not because I’m dreading the inevitable check-in calls after practice, but because they’ll know no one wants to be my partner and the only reason I have Dylan is that he had no choice.
I’m no one’s first choice; I’m not even anyone’s last choice.
“Dylan, can I talk to you? Alone.”
His gaze flickers to me as always, mischievous and light. For a split second, I wonder if yesterday was all a dream. But the delusion doesn’t last, because I can still feel the light sting of his teeth on my lips.
“I think I’m in trouble, Mila,” he says, finishing off his plate as he takes it to the sink. “But your food might be worth facing your daughter’s wrath.”
“You’ll be fine. Sierra doesn’t have an angry bone in her body.”
Dylan barks out a laugh, but when he sees my mom’s confused expression, he hides it in a cough. He glances at me, but I look away and turn to head up my room. Then Scarlett texts me.
Scarlett: Did you get my surprise?
Sierra: What surprise?
Scarlett: 6’4”, brown hair, cocky as hell and way too persuasive for his own good.
Sierra: You gave him my address? What the hell, Scar?
Scarlett: He’s your partner now! And he said my hair is pretty before he offered to talk to someone at the DU hospital to get me more hours. It was only right I gave him what he needed.
Sierra: You are a weak, weak woman.
Scarlett: Or I’m a perfectly sane woman, and you’re just in denial.
I drop my phone on the bed and turn at the squeak of my desk chair. Dylan’s sitting in it, holding the strip of photo booth pictures of Justin and me from our last Grand Prix.
“Cute,” he says bitterly.
I lunge for the strip, but he’s quicker, standing up so fast the chair scratches against the floor. I go for it again only for him to step back, which causes me to fall into his chest. A smug grin teases the corner of his mouth.
“It’s only up because I look good in it.”
“Can’t argue with that,” he says.
What I don’t say is that it reminds me of when things were good between Justin and me.
It helps me believe it wasn’t all bad. Dylan shifts closer.
His eyes linger on my face like he’s piecing together something I won’t say.
My breath catches, the closeness stirring the echo of a kiss I can’t seem to forget.
But then he leans back abruptly, the chair creaking as he drops into it, leaving me standing there, awkward and unsteady, between his legs.
“Didn’t expect you to run away after our first practice,” he says, looking at me from where he sits, the chair barely wide enough.
But he leans into it with the kind of ease that makes it look like it was made for him.
I suppose he does that all the time. Dylan walks into every room like he owns it, like he’s been there a thousand times.
“I didn’t run away. I visit on weekdays since I study on weekends.”
He gives me a curious look. “So, why does your mom think you’re some sweet angel?”
His fingers graze my thigh, and I flinch, quickly clearing my throat. “Because I am.”
“The only sweet thing about you is the alcohol I tasted from your lips, Sierra,” he says, his tone too casual. “Everything else is hot and scorching.”
“Like the sun?”
“Like hell.”
My gaze cuts into his. “You would know.”
The tension is thick in my room, making me fall back onto my mattress. I stare at the glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling. “No one likes an angry girl.”
“I do.”
“Coming from Dalton’s most physical hockey player, that’s not exactly a compliment,” I try to joke, but he doesn’t even crack a smile. “If you must know, you can’t be loud and opinionated when you’re trying to get judges to like you. My partner also wasn’t a fan of my attitude.”
My heart skips when his fingers drag along my desk, over the pink journal where I’ve written all my darkest thoughts from last year.
“Having an attitude versus an opinion about something you do professionally are two different things. I think you’ve been around weak people who can’t listen to a smart woman without making it a dick-measuring contest.”
I blink.
“When you’re with me, Sierra, I don’t want you to be who everyone thinks you are. I want you to be the girl who calls me out on my shit and speaks her mind. Can you do that?”
I nod.
“Good.” He grins, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Now let’s go before Lidia thinks you’ve killed me in my sleep. And take these.” He places a bottle of ibuprofen on my desk.
“How’d you know?” I stare at the bottle. I’ve never told him about my headaches.
“Your best friend mentioned something,” he says before heading for the stairs.
Of course she did. I pull the charger from my laptop, stuff both into my bag, and grab the jacket slung over the chair. My attention catches on the photo booth pictures of Justin and me in the trash can under my desk.
I head downstairs, but my mom doesn’t let me leave until I’ve eaten something, and Dylan spends that time buttering her up. I leave my half-finished food and pull my bag onto my shoulder. I can’t take it.
“Let’s go.” I grab Dylan’s arm, dragging him along. He waves to my mom, who calls for me to slow down.
“I like it when you have your way with me, Romanova.”
Great, so he’s joking about this now. He really didn’t think anything of that kiss. For all I know, it was just another Wednesday—another girl; another kiss; another hot, stuffy room where she’s left burning with the need for more.
“Just unlock the car,” I order.
“The back seat?” he asks buoyantly. “It’s been a while, but you’re small enough—”
“Just drive,” I say, giving him a gentle shove. But even as he jokes, I can’t help but notice his eyes dim. I walk to the passenger side, but before I can open the door, Dylan pushes it open from the inside, a boyish grin on his face as I dodge the swinging door.
“Thanks,” I mutter.
My seat is warm when I get inside, and Dylan takes my bag from me and tosses it in the back. I watch him then, in the quiet of the car’s hum as he puts a hand on the back of my seat to reverse.
When he’s on the road, he glances at me. “You didn’t finish your breakfast. Your headache will only feel worse on an empty stomach.”
“I didn’t finish because I was trying to get you out of there before you became best friends with my mom and told her everything.”
“We already are. She just texted me the recipe for her bliny.” He glances at me. “Why haven’t you told her about us? Embarrassed?”
“If they find out Kilner and Lidia put us together, they’ll know that no one wanted me.”
The silence stretches, thick and uncomfortable. He doesn’t even have any music on, and I wonder if it’s because of my headache.
We drive like that for a while before Dylan says, “Can you grab my bag from the back seat?”
“Your bag?” I ask, glancing at him suspiciously, but oblige. I lean back and grab it from the seat, placing it onto my lap as he digs into it and pulls out a brown paper bag.
“There are two sandwiches in there.” He points to the bag. “Take one.”
“A sandwich?” My heart thumps slowly. I never bring a mid-practice snack—my body hasn’t earned it. Justin and I never had cheat days; his diet was strict, and so was mine. A few thousand calories a day depending on what we needed. Nothing more, nothing less.
“Should I be worried about you?” he asks, his eyes still on the road.
“Why?”
“Because I think you’re losing your hearing.”
I scoff. “I just find it interesting that you happened to have an extra sandwich. Peanut butter, of all things.”
“That matters because …?”
I eye him suspiciously. “I love peanut butter.”
“That’s cute,” he says. “You’re like one of those dogs.”
“Funny,” I mutter.
“Is that also why you chose yesterday to run off to your parents’ house?” he says, glancing at me, his hands tightening on the steering wheel.
“I told you I didn’t run away.”
“So it wasn’t because of what happened during our mat session?”
Great, okay, so we’re talking about this. I’m still hoping we can forget about it like a bad dream. I decide to go that route. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Ah, so that’s how we’re going to play it?” he asks. “I thought you were braver than that, Sierra. Seemed like the case when you were on top of me.”
“Look, I—”
“Why did you kiss me?” he asks. There’s something about the question that feels heavier than it should.
“Y-you kissed me too,” I say defensively, though he just gives me a sidelong glance. I sigh. “I wasn’t thinking, and it’s been a while. But don’t worry, I know we’re partners, and we shouldn’t do that.”
“We shouldn’t?”
“Yeah, I mean, I don’t usually do things like that. It’s not me. And I know that must sound stupid to you because, you know …” I gesture to him. He’s so confident in himself and sex. He makes it look so uncomplicated.
“Right,” he says tightly. “I know.”
I don’t say anything else, and neither does he, but I can’t help but notice the way his shoulders square and his Adam’s apple bobs.
The rest of the ride to the rink is quiet, and this time when we get to the arena, Lidia leads us to an actual training room. But it’s nothing like yesterday. Dylan barely even looks at me.