Chapter 30
THIRTY
SIERRA
SHIN SPLINTS SUCK.
Sacrificing everything you have to a sport so unforgiving it leaves you battered and bruised also sucks.
I walked to the rink, just a few minutes past campus.
It’s poorly maintained, but with Dalton’s strict rules, it’s the only community rink open at this hour, and I couldn’t just sit and keep thinking.
It’s exhausting hearing my constant worries, insecurities, and flashbacks coil together and spring out in different directions.
Skating is starting to become an extinguished flame.
A match you try to keep alight only for a gust of wind to leave you with blackened smoke.
I push myself to feel the burn in my muscles as I speed into a jump I shouldn’t even be attempting. A Lutz, clean and crisp, but when I land on the uneven surface, I stumble and crash onto my knees. It’s cold enough that my skin is numb, so I barely feel it.
A sick part of me enjoys reminding my body that I’m in control. It can’t just give up on me one day and decide it’s over. When I attempt another jump, I fall again, releasing a frustrated sound when I stand on shaky legs.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
The deep voice cuts through the sound of my skates.
I stop in the center, turning to find Dylan standing on the edge, watching me.
His hair curls at the bottom from the rain, his cheeks are a little pink from the cold, and he’s wearing a hoodie and black joggers, straight out of practice. He looks pissed.
I realize I’ve never seen him angry before. He’s all jokes and pickup lines, but right now, he’s angry, so angry I can feel it thrumming off him from all the way over here.
“Do you need me to speak slower?” he asks like a condescending asshole. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Skating. Have you heard of it?” I barely manage to say through a ragged breath.
“It’s barely holding together. And you’re doing jumps like it’s Olympic-grade ice. What are you thinking?”
I’m not.
“You gonna stand there until you trip on a divot and sprain your ankle? I’ll take you to a real rink and let you fuck up all your joints. Step off. Now, Sierra.”
I hate how irritating and right he is. I also hate how hot he looks when he’s angry.
“I need to practice,” I mutter.
His gaze turns steely. “How to be an idiot? Because you don’t need to, you’re nailing it.”
I glare. “I never asked for you to come here, Dylan.”
“Too fucking bad, Sierra. Because there are people who care about you. Like Scarlett, who was at the rink looking for you. Lidia, who said you didn’t pick up her calls. Me. So, no, you’re not allowed to just go off and skate when you should be resting.”
“Resting from what? I sucked last night!”
“So you’re going to punish yourself?” His eyes narrow. “You think coming here and skating on bad ice while you’re not warmed up, without your coach, without your partner, is going to help?”
“I’ve done this alone plenty of times before.”
“I don’t give a fuck about before. You don’t get to do this. Not with me.”
Shame and embarrassment take a bite right out of my resolve. I’m doing exactly what I’d been doing a year ago. Pushing people away, trying to do it on my own. It wasn’t fair to anyone.
I drop my gaze to the not-so-solid ice. “I need the practice. I’ve got to be doing something.”
“You’re definitely pissing me off.”
“Then at least I’ve accomplished one thing today.”
He stares at me dead on. Clearly not in the mood to be fucked with. “Come here and say that again.”
I think I’m smirking, but my face is too numb to tell. “Come and get me.”
“You sure about that?” Dylan asks. “Because if I come there, Sierra, you’re leaving with your ass in the air.”
My heart races more than it already was. Dylan’s walking before I even get the words out of my mouth. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Have you even met me?”
My legs are so exhausted, I can’t move fast enough. “Don’t come near me.”
“If I can’t follow you into your head, I’m going to follow you everywhere else,” he says, and then he leans in, right by my ear, until I feel a shiver run down my spine. “Don’t run from me.”
My breath hitches and my words are stuttered. “I—I will cut you. Don’t touch me.”
“Do your worst, Romanova,” is all he says before he’s got an arm wrapped around my waist and I’m thrown over his shoulder. The scream that leaves me is high-pitched and breathless. My abs ache from the exertion, and from his shoulder digging into my stomach.
My clothes are nearly soaking wet. My hands are so cold, I can’t feel them, not even when I try to scratch his back. He doesn’t even react.
“Asshole,” I mutter.
“Brat,” he says.
I’ve given up on plotting how to cause him bodily harm by the time we get to his car outside. He opens the door and drops me on the seat, harder than necessary. When I hiss in pain, probably from the bruises forming on my ass, his gaze still flickers with a flash of worry.
But then he crouches and undoes my skates. He’s gentle, so much gentler than the hard expression on his face. My heart slows, and the regret comes crashing in too.
“I’m s—”
His glare is sharp enough that I shut my mouth. He unlaces both skates and places them on the side of the footwell. He moves my entire body with one push so I’m facing forward.
“Dylan—”
He shuts the door. We drive in silence. It’s only when we pass Iona House that I glance over at his unreadable expression, my voice barely a whisper. “You missed my dorm.”
“I know,” he says, his voice low.
“Then where are you taking me?”
He sighs, giving me a sidelong glance. “I’m taking you home, Sierra.”
“Where is home?” I ask.
“With me.”