Chapter 8
CHAPTER
EIGHT
MAISIE
I can count on both hands how many times I’ve missed a Sunday morning service at my daddy’s church since I was born.
The vast majority of those times, I was sick.
Without fail, I’ve found myself in the same old, creaky wooden pew at the front that I’ve been sitting in since I was old enough to stop Sunday school classes and finally attend “big kid” church, listening to Daddy preach about whatever his sermon was about that week.
I never questioned it.
I’m the preacher’s daughter. I wake up every Sunday morning, put on my pretty dresses, and sit down at that pew week after week.
Except for today. I skipped church, sending a text to my parents that I wasn’t feeling well last night.
Which is a lie.
Not even a tiny half-truth.
A total lie.
My head isn’t aching the way I said it is. I feel perfectly fine, except for the guilt I’m feeling about lying.
I just, for once, wanted to choose for myself, and starting today, I’m going to take back my Sundays.
I woke up at four o’clock this morning for a 5:00 a.m. sunrise yoga class on campus, and it was incredible. Indescribable, honestly.
There’s something… so powerful about connecting with nature while doing something transformative as yoga. Feeling the sun warming your face while your palms are flattened against the soft, lush grass, strengthening your body while in tune with the Earth.
I loved it, and I’m already looking forward to the next one. Maybe next time, I’ll coerce Lennon into going with me since she loves to drag me along to the arena with her.
Which is why I’m here bright and early on a Sunday morning after yoga. But honestly? As much as I usually do not want to be here because I’m freezing, I don’t mind it today because I get to watch Lennon skate.
She’s the most incredible figure skater I’ve ever seen, and she loves it as fiercely as I do my books.
But for a long time, her father forbade her from skating, and it nearly destroyed her.
He cut off her resources and tried to use something she loves more than anything as a weapon against her, as a way to control her.
And that’s kind of what gave her the courage to reclaim that part of her, to be whoever she wanted to be. Witnessing her transformation into the woman she was always meant to be is what helped me realize that I have to prioritize my own journey, my own wants and needs, my own desires.
It’s been a while since I’ve seen her skate, and it’s still one of my favorite things in the world.
I used to go with her a lot when we were still roommates.
I’d bring a book and sneak in a few chapters when I wasn’t watching my best friend be a total badass on the ice. But since she’s moved in with Saint, they go together most of the time so he can practice, and she can too.
Ironic considering their relationship started with them fighting over their forced shared ice time. But fighting to the two of them is their version of foreplay, so obviously, I no longer come to watch Len practice the way I used to.
I don’t need any more traumatizing—the walls of our apartment are plenty thin enough. I’ve got enough trauma now to last a lifetime, thanks to Satan. I mean Saint.
Not today though. I get my bestie all to myself.
Saint, being the obsessed, over-the-top man that he is, got Lennon two hours of solo ice time this morning. “Unofficially,” of course.
He’d do anything for her, and that includes sneaking her into the arena just so she can have time to do what she loves.
So today, I get to sit in the stands just like old times and watch. I’m so excited to be able to spend a girls’ day with Len afterward.
They feel few and far between lately, and I want to soak up every minute.
I’m going to drag her along to go to the farmer’s market to get some fruit and veggies, maybe some fresh flowers if they have any.
My favorite is the buttercups. They’re the most gorgeous shades of yellow, and I love putting them on my kitchen table.
It just brightens my apartment up so much, and they make me smile when I see them sitting there.
I’ve got the entire day planned out, and I’m honestly just so looking forward to having a Sunday all to myself that I can do whatever I want, whenever I want.
I’m so early getting to the rink because I was already on campus for my yoga class this morning.
I didn’t want to go all the way back to my apartment just to turn around and come right back to the arena to meet Lennon, so I stopped and grabbed a protein smoothie from the bakery on campus, and now I’m…
still here nearly an hour before I should be.
Good thing I brought the new book I just started with me.
I always carry a book with me, you know, just in case I can sneak in a few pages.
I pull on the handle of the entrance door, even if it’s a long shot that it’s unlocked yet, and magically… it is.
Hmmm. Maybe Saint had maintenance unlock it early for Lennon? Dunno.
I shrug and walk inside as I take a sip of my pineapple smoothie, using my other hand to quietly let the door fall shut. As much as I hate being cold, I’d take that over sweating to death any day.
I’m pretty sure that I’m probably not supposed to be in here this early, but I guess the worst that could happen is they ask me to leave. This could also be a good time to scope out the arena a bit to see the best place to have the event while I’m here.
Uninterrupted.
I should’ve done that the last time I was here, but I was too frustrated after dealing with Wilder.
He’s infuriating.
And stupid.
And hot.
As much as I hate to admit that.
He’s so hot it makes my stomach flutter and my heart race against my pulse.
Precisely why I’ve been staying far, far away from the arena during business hours so I didn’t have another run-in with him. So, I didn’t have to see him at all.
Because after I accidentally dumped his coffee all over him, and he took his shirt off, dumb muscles rippling as he did… I realized that the best thing I can do is just stop thinking about him.
To stop hoping that what happened will ever happen between us again.
He made it clear. Abundantly so.
Not just by what he said, but by being a complete jerk to me any chance he’s gotten.
Whatever happened between us is over and done.
It was one night. One I’m going to stop thinking about.
Soon.
I finish my smoothie and drop it into the trash can near the stands, but I come to an abrupt, stuttering halt when I hear the sound of blades scraping the ice.
I move further inside the arena and find the object of my insanity over the last three weeks, the man who was just infiltrating my thoughts when he shouldn’t be, on the ice.
Because of course, that’s the way the universe works.
It continually seems to push us together, despite how hard we’re both fighting it.
Or maybe it’s just bad luck that continues to stack up against me.
Wilder’s flying across the ice, stick in hand, moving with speed that I’ve never seen before.
One moment, there’s nothing in front of him, and the next, he’s on a puck in the span that it takes me to blink, slapping it into the net with startlingly sharp, controlled precision. Like it’s completely effortless.
Like it’s second nature, stitched into who he is.
He hasn’t noticed me yet, and part of me hopes that he doesn’t. Because selfishly, I want to watch him like this without him being aware.
Right now, he’s not performing for a crowd, for fans, or his team, for anyone but himself, and it feels like a private moment that I’m intruding on, but I just can’t look away.
I can’t stop watching him glide across the ice, flicking his wrist and snapping puck after puck into the net.
His dark hair is damp and curling around his temples and ears, drenched in sweat.
Apparently, he’s been here for a while because the tight, gray athletic shirt he’s wearing is soaked too.
His cheeks are flushed red, and his chest is heaving as he runs another drill, skating as fast as he can before slamming to a stop, then sprinting back to the other line.
Completely focused.
Undeniably masterful at what he does.
This is the Wilder Hawthorne that the world knows. The professional hockey player that fans filled the stands for, chanted his name when he scored a goal in overtime that brought his team to the Stanley Cup Finals.
The former rookie of the year.
Obviously, I had to look him up after what I learned the other night at Jack’s.
I wanted to see for myself.
But none of the videos, the old game clips, any of it, comes close to watching him on the ice right now.
An unexpected pang of sadness hits me, causing my stomach to tighten when I think about how he had to give all of it up.
His career… playing hockey, something he was clearly meant to do.
I don’t know what the truth is. The real truth behind what the gossip sites said or what’s been passed along the rumor mill. Maybe he did beat that guy up for no reason at all. It’s not like I know him enough to judge his character.
I don’t really know anything about him.
But I do know what it’s like to not have a choice in the direction of your life.
And I can’t imagine having the thing I loved most taken away from me without it being my decision. And that happened to him.
It’s sad either way.
So I almost, kind of, understand why he’s so callous and shut off, but not quite. He could still not be such an asshole.
My phone chimes in my bag with a text message. And then another.
And… then another.
Lennon, obviously. She’s the only person who texts me ten times in a row because she never finishes a thought before pressing Send.
Oh God.
Wilder freezes when he hears it. The muscles in his back turn rigid before he slowly turns, eyes catching mine from across the ice.
My heart is pounding so loudly that I’m sure he can hear it over the sound of my stupid phone.