6. Maisie
MAISIE
T he first time Austin Rhodes asked me to tutor him, I assumed he was joking.
Not because he’s the kind of guy who makes jokes like that—at least I don’t think he does—but because I didn’t think someone like him would ever think of asking someone like me for help.
There are at least five other tutors in our program who would leap at the chance to spend an hour alone with Austin Rhodes. And I’m not one of them.
He’s a cocky hockey player. Loud, always surrounded by people, the kind of guy who walks into a room like he owns it.
Girls orbit him like he’s the sun, and he never seems particularly fazed by any of it.
I doubt he even notices. That easy kind of popularity only comes to people who were born into it.
I, on the other hand, was not.
So, no, I didn’t understand why he asked me. He’d never spoken to me before. I sit in the back row, take detailed notes, color-code my planner. He shows up ten minutes late and spends most of the lecture half-listening and half-whispering to his friends.
We exist in different academic ecosystems.
Still, he asked. And I said yes.
Because… well, he wouldn’t shut up unless I agreed. But also, I am good at this. Smart. Organized. Straight A’s since high school. I know how to explain things clearly, how to break down information into manageable pieces.
And helping Austin—no matter how often he flashes me that pearly white smile of his—will be no different.
Still, I’d be lying if I said my heart wasn’t hammering when I packed my books after class the other day, because my brain doesn’t know how to not catastrophize.
My brain doesn’t know how to leave things alone. It picks at every word, replays every look, and spins a hundred possible outcomes.
Overthinking is my default. I have entire conversations in my head before I even manage to get a word out.
It’s exhausting.
I push open the rink doors, and immediately feel that familiar chill settle in my bones.
But what hits me as soon as I walk in, is the unmistakable sound of hockey skates cutting through ice.
The guys should’ve been off the rink ten minutes ago.
But, of course, they’re still out there, taking their sweet ass time like they own the place.
Unbelievable.
I roll my eyes. This is why I can’t stand hockey players. They’re entitled, strutting around with that smug look, like they run the entire school. And now, thanks to them, the ice is a mess, turned to snow, which means we’ll have to wait for the Zamboni to come out and refresh it.
“Are you kidding me?” Coach Nikki appears beside us, her arms folded, gaze fixed on the rink. “They’re cutting into our practice time.”
A few of the girls standing nearby groan in response.
“They do this every time,” one says, rolling her eyes.
“Ugh, I know,” another adds with a small laugh. “But honestly, they’re so hot to look at, I almost don’t care.”
Coach raises an eyebrow, then shakes her head. “Go on in and get changed. I’ll see if I can get this sped up.”
The girls head toward the locker room in a group, talking to each other. I follow a few steps behind, my duffel bag bouncing lightly against my hip.
Everyone starts getting changed, pulling off their coats and sweaters, chatting without much thought. I see a few girls shimmy out of their jeans with no hesitation as they strip down to bras and thongs.
Me? I head straight to the showers, ducking into a stall with my bag like it’s second nature.
I’ve done this every practice since I was twelve.
I never undress in front of the other girls.
Not because I’m ashamed of my body exactly, but because I’m aware of it. Of how different it looks from theirs.
I step into a stall and lock the door behind me before I start tugging my clothes off.
I pull on my black leggings, then the soft pink zip-up jacket I always wear, over a white t-shirt. I adjust the hem and pull on my pale pink ankle warmers, and twist my hair up into a bun.
When I step back out, the girls are still changing, chatting about some guy on the football team. I sit down at the end of the bench and focus on pulling my ankle warmers into place.
Then I reach for my phone, my eyes lighting up and my chest pounding when I see a new text from Six.
“Hey.”
I blink, a little startled as I glance up. Savannah is standing in front of me, her blonde curls tucked into a headband and earbuds slung around her neck. It takes me a second to realize she’s talking to me.
My voice catches in my throat before I manage a low, “Hey.”
She gestures vaguely downward. “You’re sitting on my jacket.”
Right. Of course I am.
“Oh,” I scramble to my feet so fast my water bottle tips over and clatters to the floor with a hollow thunk. “Sorry. I didn’t realize.”
She doesn’t say anything else. Just bends down, grabs her jacket, and walks off.
I sink back onto the bench, my face burning as I pick up my water bottle and glance back at my phone, the screen still open to Six’s message.
I exhale slowly, my thumbs hovering over the screen as I read his message.
Six:
Confession: I once faked a phone call to get out of a class. I think I said my dog had food poisoning. I don’t even have a dog.
A smile tugs at my lips before I can stop it. I shift back against the locker and type out a reply.
Me:
Cruel. Poor imaginary dog.
Six:
He made a full recovery. Real fighter, that one. Pulled through against all odds.
I bite back a laugh. This is the easiest part of my day. With Six, I don’t have to think about how I look, or how I sound, or whether my leggings are rolling down weirdly in the back. He doesn’t know me. I don’t know him. Somehow, that makes it better.
Me:
Confession. I hate phone calls.
Six:
Anything worth saying could be sent in an email.
Me:
Exactly.
Three dots appear on the screen, and disappear a couple of times before his reply comes in.
Six:
So, does that mean there’s no chance of you ever picking up if I called? Even just once?
My heart hammers in my chest. My fingers pause over the keys. Because the truth is, I do want to hear his voice. I want to know if he sounds like I imagine. If he laughs the way I read his texts.
But I’m scared, too.
Calls feel risky. Like it’d break the spell. Strip the mystery.
He might hear my voice and know .
Or worse. I might know him .
And I’m not ready for that.
Right now, it’s perfect. Safe. Secret. Just two anonymous people telling each other their confessions.
My fingers hover over the screen for a few seconds before I type out my answer.
Me:
Too risky.
Six:
Uh oh. You think you’ll fall in love with my voice?
I roll my eyes, smiling like a total idiot. I feel all warm and fuzzy and… happy. I always do when I talk to him.
Me:
You wish.
Six:
I do, actually.
And now I’m blushing. Because what the hell do I even say to that?
Six:
So, what else don’t I know about you?
I pause. There’s a list. A long one. Too many things I’ve never said out loud, and way too many I wouldn’t say to a stranger—even one I like talking to more than most real people.
I settle on a small confession, not wanting to dull the mood.
Me:
I hate orange-flavored candy.
Six:
Damn. That’s rough. I was gonna propose with a bag of orange Skittles.
Me:
Glad I dodged that disaster. They taste like cleaning supplies.
Six:
Okay, that’s fair. Cherry reigns supreme anyway.
I pause, staring at his last message. It’s just a throwaway comment. But my stomach still flips, like it means more than it should.
I glance up, watching the other girls move around me like I’m not there. And weirdly, I don’t mind it as much right now. Not when I have someone to talk to who actually wants to hear what I have to say, even if I don’t know his name.
I swallow hard, and tighten my laces before heading out of the locker room. I’m used to being invisible. Especially with the girls here. I kinda thought it’d be different once I started college and was skating with a bunch of other girls. But nothing’s changed.
The only person I don’t feel invisible with is my little sister, Lottie.
She’s sixteen, way cooler than I’ve ever been, and has more friends than I’ll probably have in my entire life.
She’s also the only person I tell everything to.
Which is… sad, I guess. But she never makes me feel like I’m too much.
Or not enough. She listens whenever I want to rant about anything and everything, and I wouldn’t trade her for the world.
I just… I wish I had someone that wasn’t my sister to talk to. Someone that I could hang out with and go out with and just?—
I let out a sigh as I step onto the ice, and the rambling thoughts in my head quiets. I push forward, each stroke carving into the surface with a satisfying scratch.
The surface is smooth and fresh as I circle the rink, slowly at first, letting myself sink into the rhythm. My body knows this choreography like the back of my hand. This is the only place I ever feel fully like myself.
Strong. Graceful. Beautiful, even—though I’d never say that out loud.
I’ve spent enough time trying to fold myself smaller in every room I walk into to know that I’m not lean or long-limbed like the girls who land triples like it’s nothing.
I jiggle when I jump. My thighs press together even when I’m standing straight.
I am soft where they are sculpted, round where they are lean.
And still, I am here. And I deserve to be here.
The other girls are spread across the ice, practicing their spirals and chatting between runs. I glance at them, swishing as they glide like they were born with skates on their feet.
One girl executes a flawless double toe loop, and I watch the way the others nod, impressed.
I rip my gaze away and do a few warm-up laps, shaking out the nerves. My body knows what to do. Muscle memory takes over, and I fall into the rhythm.
I transition into a catch-foot spin, keeping my arms extended, then slowly pulling one leg up behind me, grabbing the blade and holding tight. The stretch burns through my shoulder and thigh, but the spin feels centered. Controlled.
“Elbow up,” Coach calls from the boards. “Hold the line through the exit.”
I nod, dropping my foot back onto the ice. She’s right, the exit was sloppy. Still, not bad. Better than last week.
I push off again, coasting around to gain momentum for the jump I’ve been working on for months. The double axel—forward outside edge takeoff, two and a half rotations in the air, land on the opposite foot.
I’ve landed it in drills, in slow practice runs.
But never at speed.
Today, maybe.
I gather speed along the boards, my arms tight against my body, keeping my breath even, and push into the rotation, but my toe pick clips the ice, and I go down hard.
My breath punches out of me as I slide to a stop.
I lie there for a second. Not because I’m hurt. Just… stunned. And tired. And maybe a little humiliated.
Coach’s voice cuts across the rink. “Maisie, get that right hip up! Think about getting your butt through the jump. You’re sitting back too early.”
I wince, nod, and push up from the ice.
“Nice one, Carly,” Coach calls out to one of the other girls. “Way to hold the landing!”
I stand, and try again.
Skating is a ton of repetition. You fail, you try again. You fall, you fix your edges, your timing, your damn hips, and you go again.
On the next attempt, I over-rotate. The landing is too wide. My blade wobbles, and I have to put a hand down to stop the fall.
I circle back into position. Breathe. Focus. Try again.
On the third attempt, I drive through the takeoff, push my hips forward, and remember Coach’s words. My arms lock in, core pulled tight. I spin once, twice, then half again and land clean.
I glide out, my pulse hammering, heart in my throat.
Holy shit … I did it . I actually landed it.
“Better,” Coach says, nodding once in my direction.
I blow out a breath, unable to keep the smile off my face.
I want to tell someone. I want to text Six and say, You won’t believe what I just did.
But I can’t. I can’t tell him I skate. That’s the rule. No names. No real details.
Just secrets. Just confessions.
And this? This is a piece of me he’s not allowed to know.
But still.
Maybe I don’t look like I belong here.
But I do. Even if I have to say it a hundred times to believe it—I belong here.
And I just proved it.