Chapter 17
Nikolai
Isabelle plops on my bed, cold pizza slice in hand. “I’m so glad you live on an all-gender floor. The bathroom is marginally
less gross than it could be.” She pauses to bite her pizza before adding, “Although I’m still surprised you’re living in a
dorm at all.”
“I didn’t want to put anyone out last minute,” I say as I reach for another slice of pizza. We both prefer it topped with
vegetables, a summertime discovery that delighted her to no end. “It’s not like I need more space. And anyway, it’s better
now that I replaced the furniture.”
Back in the city, I’d stop by the office after Mom left for lunch with a couple slices, plus a Fanta for her and a seltzer
for me. When she waltzed in an hour ago, pizza box in hand, I tossed it on my desk and busied myself with a different sort
of feast. Not that she put up a protest, of course. She knew what she was getting into when she showed up still dressed for
practice.
“This bed is definitely better,” she says teasingly, stretching out her long legs. I let my gaze linger—she has a cute freckle
on her knee that I can’t stop staring at—until she blushes, swatting at me.
Prettiest stress relief I’ve ever seen.
I gesture to her with my pizza. “Interesting shirt choice.”
She glances at her chest. Usually, she goes for a soft maroon T-shirt of mine that I suspect will go missing one day, but tonight, she opted for my favorite band shirt. We saw Rift over the summer, when I snuck her into a club with a surprisingly hard-ass bouncer, and even though she pretended to hate the music, by the end of the night, she was scream-shouting the lyrics with me as we danced.
“This is the terrible metal band you took me to see, right?”
I press my hand to my heart. “You wound me.”
“Okay, fine. They had a couple good songs.” She sips her Fanta. “But generally speaking, your music taste needs help.”
She reaches for my phone, but I grab it before she can. “No. No more Carrie Underwood on my workout playlists.”
“It was one song—”
“One song that blasted to the entire team in the middle of warm-ups.”
She huffs. “Which is not my fault. You’re the one who volunteered your phone.” She lunges for it. I hold it over her head,
making her scowl adorably. “Come on. I promise this is going to be cooler.”
“Who?”
She climbs into my lap, still reaching for the phone. I almost tickle her—it would be so easy—but she’s so sensitive to that,
she’d probably kick me and send the pizza flying across the room. I learned that the hard way last week. “Ariana Grande?”
“Ugh.”
“Dua Lipa.”
“No.”
“Sabrina Carpenter?”
I heave a sigh at her hopeful face. It’s hard to say no when she’s swimming in a Rift T-shirt, a bit of pizza sauce on her
cheek. I swipe it away with my thumb. “Fine. One song.”
She already has my phone in her hand, cackling to herself as she fucks up my Spotify algorithm again. It’s not like I actually mind; it’s just too fun to wind her up first. Even though we’re back at school, along with everything that entails, it’s been as easy between us as it was in New York City. I don’t know if I’d have been able to move on if I stayed in Massachusetts. It’s not the sex, although the sex is fantastic. I just like being around her, as long as I don’t think about the eventual end. Somehow, whenever I spend time with her—even if it’s stolen moments like this on a Tuesday evening—I feel lighter. Calmer.
I kiss her, pizza breath and all. “How was practice?”
“Pretty good, actually. Do you remember Brooklyn Ortega?”
“The senior setter you keep fangirling over?”
“She’s amazing.” She finally relinquishes my phone. “She heard I’m looking to get back into the position and offered to do
extra practices with me.”
My heart does a delighted backflip. “That’s great.”
“Yeah.” She wiggles happily as she returns to her pizza. “I hope Alexis will notice.”
From what I’ve heard about Isabelle’s coach, it’s best if I never meet her. I’d have a hard time holding my tongue. Over the
years, I’ve played alongside plenty of guys who think they’re owed something just because they’re on the team, but I know
Isabelle isn’t like that. She’s putting in the work, and extra practices with Brooklyn will help even more.
“I’m sure she will.” I put my hand on her knee, squeezing. “The stuff I’ve been doing with Micah is really helping him.”
She smiles as she tucks her hair behind her ear. “I’ll be too embarrassed to face my parents otherwise. It’s bad enough to
have my brothers asking about it whenever I get home from a match.”
I make a sympathetic noise. “You never told me how you got into it, you know.”
“Volleyball?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I had to do something athletic,” she says. “You get it.”
“True. I don’t know what my father would have done if I didn’t like hockey.” I don’t want to think about it, either. I shove the thought aside. Everything that I went through to become the best when I was young—if I hadn’t loved it, it would have been pure torture.
“By the time I was, like, four, James was already playing football. Dad tried to get Cooper into it, too, but he decided he
wanted to play hockey. So I tried dance, specifically—”
“Ballet?” I interrupt.
She digs her elbow into my side. “How did you know?”
“Something tells me that baby Isabelle was very enamored with pink tutus.”
“Yes,” she says with a sigh. “The tutus. The greatest advertisement ballet could ever come up with. But it was so rigid. I
just wanted to move to music, I didn’t want to learn specific steps.”
“You’re still an excellent dancer.”
“You’re not half-bad yourself.”
“Did you go into volleyball, then?”
“No. I tried soccer first, and then softball. Both were fine—just not enough to make me want to really work at it, you know?
And then, when I was in middle school, my dad took me to a charity volleyball game. And it clicked for me.” As she talks,
her voice brightens. “I loved how fast-paced it was, and all the coordination and teamwork. I went to volleyball camp—that’s
how I met Victoria—and joined a club team that fall.”
“That’s nice,” I say, my heart squeezing fondly. “I’m glad that you discovered it.”
“I want to feel that again. I was really involved with my team in high school, I was a leader, and now it’s just... it’s
like I’m on the outs.” She frowns at me. “Are you feeling this way, with the new team?”
“I think it’s normal.” I’ve always felt... apart, somehow, from my teammates, and so far, McKee hasn’t proved to be an exception, even if I’ve gotten dinner with the guys a few times and worked on my economics homework in the team lounge with Mickey. Isabelle, though? I can’t imagine her not finding a place on her team. “Maybe the thing with Brooklyn will help.”
“Maybe.” She knocks her shoulder against mine. “I can’t get over the thought of you playing with Cooper.”
“He’s really good,” I admit.
“Of course he’s good. He’s a Callahan.”
I yank her shirt hem; she sticks her tongue out. She shrieks as I drag her close by the legs. “Nik—”
I kiss her, my hands skimming underneath the shirt. I wish she could spend the night. For some reason, I sleep better when
she’s around, and that’s been true since the first time we shared a bed. “Then you’re good, too.”