CHAPTER 9
Troy
“ALL I’M SAYING is, maybe it’s time you went on a date,” Xavier tries to persuade as we enter the men’s locker room. “I saw you and Chloe at the party the other night.”
Reaching into my locker, I sigh, “I told you, I’m not interested in Chloe—what the fuck?”
A sticky, but also thick substance clings to my fingers as I pull out my skates from my gym bag.
Peanut Butter?
And honey?
Seems Ana is really going the extra mile today…
I’d probably even laugh, had last night’s dinner not happened. But no amateur prank’s enough to turnaround my mood right now.
“Swear, it wasn’t me.” Xavier faces me, shocked.
“I know. It was Ana.”
His brows scrunch in skepticism. “Do I wanna know?”
I slam the locker shut. “Nope.”
Xavier rolls up the sleeves of his thermal that’s dipped in the Hummingbirds’ trademark burgundy, assembling some of his gear. While he’s strapping on another shin guard, I make a run to the nearest sink, warming up the water in hopes of removing the stubborn nut butter and gooey amber.
Now I know what my next prank on my brothers will be, if I’m ever in need of one.
Five minutes later, and the blades on my boots are still a skating hazard. After increasing the water heat and scrubbing rougher, I eventually manage to remove most of it. Polishing the edges with a twisted piece of paper towel, I return to the bench, where Xavier is now in full gear.
“I’m guessing your first practice together didn’t go well,” he says in amusement, likely at my heaving breath.
“You have no idea.” I sit beside him and start lacing up my own skates. “So, you gonna tell me what happened between you and Lauren, or should I just ask your sisters about it?”
He raises a brow my way. “Hey, I tell you plenty.”
“Not lately.” I tilt my head at him. “Or could that have something to do with Donya?”
His sigh is strong enough to brush over my shoulder. “I don’t even think Donya knows I exist.”
“And the sky isn’t blue,” I deadpan. “The woman’s eyes glue to you the second you enter a room.”
“She can do better than some hockey player.”
Placing a hand on his shoulder, I offer, “You’re not just some hockey player. You’re Xavier Herrera, and any girl would be lucky to know you.”
Unconvinced, my friend still pats me on the back. “Thanks, man.”
Other than Dimitri, Xavier is the most confident guy I know around women.
No girl makes him nervous, and it doesn’t take more than a few seconds for him to leave them charmed.
It worked on Lauren, the captain of the women’s volleyball team, the senior whose arm was pressed up against my friend’s at his costume party the other night.
Ana’s friend, Donya, who actually seems pleasant, appears to be the exception.
I place my blade guards on before we merge into the hallway to the sound of hockey sticks clacking and players snickering.
Summer hockey practice coincides with pairs skating hours once a week, and, unfortunately, that day is today.
The rest of the Hummingbirds are geared in their other signature black and the minimal navy, the shade our skating academy shares with the team.
No sign of my older brother yet, the rest are flocking to the adjacent rink.
The ice that used to be the main rink, before Sylvie Dupont, Violet’s mother, recently negotiated a massive expansion to each of the four subset of rinks so that neither sport would have priority over the other.
Although, if Sylvie had it her way, the entire rink would be reserved for figure skating.
And selfishly, I’d be okay with that, because half the hockey team, easily, consists of jerks.
A shoulder pad elbows my chest without warning.
Speaking of jerks…
Carter Reid.
Out of all the Hummingbirds, Reid is by far the worst.
He pays me a crooked grin. “Troy.”
It should come as flattery that the guy goes out of his way to pick a fight with me, as if I’m one of his unlucky opponents. If only he wasn’t such a piece of shit.
“I can’t believe that dickhead is your co-captain,” I relay to Xavier once Carter moves past us.
“I heard he made the new guy on the team cry,” he shares. “I wasn’t there, but it happened, allegedly.”
Xavier’s not a fan of Reid either. Quite frankly, not sure who is, other than my father.
“If he was my captain,” I reply, “I’d have a hard time not shoving my fist at his face at every practice.”
Xavier laughs. “Even Caden was losing his shit with him the other day during training.”
We’re interrupted by a pacing Dimitri, who’s hurrying over to the rink’s glass doors, while adjusting his gloves.
Our father doesn’t take late attendance lightly, but Dimitri, Karl, and I are always early. My brows furrow.
“If my dad wasn’t such an asshole,” I continue, “you’d be the other captain.”
“That shit’s too stressful. I don’t know how your brother does it.”
Not sure what happened since middle school, but there was a time when you couldn’t go a month without Xavier bringing up his dream of being a captain. To the point where I was convinced it was the determining factor that drew him to the sport.
Even though Dimitri’s 27 and just two years older than us, I also can’t imagine the stress the position brings. Carter, on the other hand, is 30, but behaves half his age.
Xavier would make a great captain one day, the relationship he has with his three younger sisters already qualifying him to the leadership, sportsmanship, and camaraderie it takes to achieve success as a team. But lately, something’s holding him back.
“Maybe, one day, though,” he says, to my surprise.
_________
“You’re late.”
I skate up to an unimpressed Ana, whose arms are meticulously folded across her chest.
“Sorry, I was busy scraping peanut butter off my blades. But you already knew that.” I tip a faux smile her way.
“That’s why I added the honey. To make sure it wouldn’t come off.” Her eyes gleam with joy.
Evil. The woman is evil.
“Yeah, I figured. Thanks for that.” I comb through my hair, brushing off the frustration. “How did you even get inside my locker?”
“You have your ways. And I have mine.” She begins skating as Sokolov motions for us to start our warmups.
“Was that supposed to scare me?” I reply, once I’ve caught up with her.
“No.”
Her long ponytail swooshes against my cheeks.
She wants to warm up by herself? Even better.
I start with my own forward swizzles before I feel a slush of ice land above my ankles as I lose my balance.
“This was,” her voice promises, while she leans her weight into me.
Managing to not fall, Ana skates off again, perfectly on cue to miss my rising chest and muttered profanity.
We meet again as we’re gliding in opposite directions, when I take the opportunity to pay her back with a move of my own.
Her hair tie falls onto the ice and as she’s kneeling to retrieve it, I bend my knees, sliding across the slippery surface, and pick up the fabric before she has the chance.
“Give it back.”
“Come and get it.” I dangle the strawberry-patterned scrunchie above my head. “Since you’re so brave.”
“Really mature.” Ana jumps a few times to reach me, her loose waves bouncing around her face. “This isn’t funny, give it back.”
“I know you’re not used to climbing higher,” I take a jab at Ethan’s height.
She blows a few of her waves away. “6 more inches hardly gives you bragging rights.”
“Well…” I raise her a brow. “That’s debatable.”
Her hands—all of a sudden—mimic claws. “You’re so—”
“Talented? I know.”
I drop the cotton ring into her palm, then turn around to the sound of Sokolov’s voice.
“What are you two doing?!” In seconds, she approaches us. “You’ve wasted so much time that in this entire week, you haven’t made any progress.” She curses in Russian, her voice rising, “Do you realize that you’re still on warmups? Now, are you going to focus so you can move on from warmups?!”
Ana’s back clicks straight. “Yes, Coach.”
“I’ve been telling her the same, Coach.”
Sokolov and her pay me a death stare, although Ana’s is strong enough to snap.
“Yes, Coach,” I dial back.
“Go,” Sokolov shoos, “so we can at least get to one lift today.”
Ana and I tread along the ice, managing high-speed laps around the boards before practicing our 3-turns.
“Your coach is as friendly as I thought she’d be,” Ana scoffs out as we’re finishing warming up.
“At least she pushes her skaters unlike Rina does with you.”
A divot pops between her brows. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Maybe I shouldn’t have said that.
And maybe with logic, I can steer my point in a better direction.
“That Sokolov will be a good coach for you. If you, actually, listen to her.”
“If she’s an extension of you, I’m just fine with my own coach.”
“You want to win again, don’t you?” I reason.
She shakes her head with condescension. “I’m not—”
“Listening to me? I’m well acquainted with that.”
Sokolov returns out of nowhere, despite our hushed tone, with the smallest notepad I think I’ve ever seen. She slips on her transparent cat-eye glasses before tossing a pen right out her wool scarf, ready to knock us down a minus seventy points.
“Pair lift with a waist hold,” our coach demands as if she’s ordering off a menu at a Michelin star bistro.
“I thought you wanted us to do a twist lift first,” I clarify.
“And now I’m asking you for a pair lift.”
“Troy, c’mon, let’s listen to our coach,” Ana backs up, bumping my arm with the snarky grin I know she’s biting down on.
Deep,
Deep breaths.
“Ana,” Sokolov continues, “start with the platter position, then from there, we will try the star.”
Ana rotates backwards as we speed down the ice, while adjusting her bolero shrug that’s wrapped around her royal blue leotard.
I reach for her waist, but she stops me.
“Here, lift me from my lower hips. It might be easier,” she explains, motioning to the waistband of her black leggings. “Ethan used to do it like that so that our legs wouldn’t get tangled.”
“Ethan also doesn’t know how to skate. I can lift you just fine.”
A wash of hesitation fills her eyes, then vanishes as soon as she blinks.