Between the Pages and the Rink (Ivywood #1)

Chapter One – Fawn

Well, damn, it’s hot — maybe even too hot. I’m sweating profusely.

It’s the height of summer, and there isn’t a cloud in sight.

Nothing compares to a good morning, especially one like this.

You know the ones. Those days when anything and everything seems possible.

Well, I got an email giving me the go-ahead to watch the local ice hockey team practice, so anything is possible.

I was so eager, I didn’t even mind running out of coffee.

Now, though? I’m sweating profusely in my car, which is a blue tin can that apparently feels the need to betray me.

Sunlight streams through the windshield, filling my nostrils with the scent of faded leather and the sweet strawberry air freshener hanging on the mirror. The sickening smells combined are starting to give me a headache.

A drop of sweat trickles down my forehead, and I brush it off with the back of my hand. Desperation kicks in as I tighten my grip on my key and twist it in the ignition. The engine sputters but will not start. If this car doesn’t kick into action, I swear—

My leg locks straight as I shove the brake down, and a high-pitched sound breaks past my lips.

Oh yeah, like that’s magically going to make it start, but it’s worth a shot. Okay, car. Fine. If this is the way you want it to be, you’ll be going to the scrapyard.

The thought of it getting crushed into a tiny blue cube is weirdly satisfying right now.

I need to get moving in two minutes, or I’ll be late, and I simply can’t afford to be late. The team’s coach seemed like an asshole in the emails. I practically had to beg him for this opportunity. I’m surprised he didn’t ask for a spare kidney in return.

Okay, this is my last try. I silently pray to the universe and turn the key one final time. The engine gives out a pathetic little whine and then dies. Yet again.

My fists tighten into balls. “Fuck, shit. Fuck,” I hiss to myself.

Maybe this is karma for fantasizing about getting it crushed into a cube.

For a second, my grip hardens on the leather, and my knuckles whiten as my chest tightens like a piece of rope pulled taut. I slump forward, resting my head against the steering wheel.

Why today, of all days? No caffeine and no car. Is the universe testing me?

A strand of my curly brown hair falls over my right eye; I blow it away. My head comes up, my fingers slack, and then the twitching starts. The urge to scream burns in my throat but I swallow it.

What am I going to do? Okay, the nearest bus stop is a fifteen-minute walk, and I’ll be waiting ages for a cab.

Think, Fawn. Think . . . Delilah!

“Dee! Dee!” I shout while getting out of the car.

I know she’s going to hate me for this. She probably just got herself into bed. But desperate times. I’ll make it up to her.

I hike the bag higher on my shoulder and shout. The first one is a bark, the second a road, the third a bursting shriek. “Delilah! Delilah! Dee!”

Can she hear me? Maybe, like a normal, sensible human, I should go inside.

However, time’s passing, and I’m moving quickly from ‘Sorry, traffic’ late to ‘There is no excuse. I’m just bad at being a late person’.

I notice a full five seconds pass before the door swings open and — oh man, she looks like she’s about to murder me. Her lips press into a line, disappearing entirely, and veins snake across her temples.

I can picture the news headlines. ‘Best Friend Kills Housemate for Waking Her Up.’

Unfortunately, she looks far from cute, her bleach-blonde hair in a messy bun, strands sticking out in the oddest directions. She’s wearing a huge T-shirt she clearly stole from some fuckboy, something she does often, and thick leggings that absolutely should not be worn in this heat.

Her jaw has now loosened, and she’s looking at me like she can’t determine whether I exist or if it’s just some crazy fever dream. “What? I was just getting myself into bed!” she croaks in a raspy voice, her eyes bloodshot.

I place my palms together like I’m praying. “I’m sorry. My car’s completely shot. Please, please, please could I have a lift to the ice rink? I’m desperate.”

Quiet.

She blinks, then blinks a second time, and releases this great sigh, resting her forehead against the doorframe like she’s completely had it. “You’re a pain in my ass.”

“I know,” I respond with a huge smile. “But hey, a loveable pain in your ass.”

She rolls her eyes while forcing her feet into her sneakers and mumbling to herself. Something about working nights, and I’m pretty sure she mentioned the word cab.

“Get in the car,” she grunts, unlocking it. “Hurry up before I change my mind and run you over instead.”

Ah, what a trooper.

I met Delilah Hart five years ago at a local bar when I first moved here. I had just graduated from college and was new and utterly lost in Ivywood.

Five years may not seem long, but our friendship has blossomed, and it already feels like I’ve known her for a lifetime. She’s the type of bestie who is always around, like your favorite cozy slippers after a long day. She’s always present and very dependable.

After my horrific breakup last year, she had me over, opened a bottle of wine, handed me a key, and said I could stay as long as I wanted. And that’s what happened. I moved in and never left.

A true friend.

We begin the drive in silence. Delilah has completely dipped without even knowing it. Her eyes droop every so often. Guilt nips at me, and I feel bad: truly, I do.

Fresh air blows in through the open car windows, making me inhale the scent of pine. An older man catches my attention as we drive past, waving his hand as if we’re old friends or something.

Do I know him? No. I wave back, but hey, this is Ivywood — a small town deep in the countryside in New England, USA, tucked behind lots of trees. It literally looks like it jumped out of a postcard.

The minute I arrived, this town completely embraced me like an old friend.

Seriously, though, I can’t complain much. Anything beats the built-up city I was in before. Here, the locals wave as you walk by, although I’m not used to the cafés closing after five in the afternoon.

Delilah breaks hard at a stop sign, making my attention flicker back inside the car. I can’t help it; my knees start twitching, so I jam my hands under my thighs and stare at the passing buildings. I’m really stoked. This is a real, in-person trip for my book. Yes, that’s right — my second book!

Jesus, it feels crazy to say the words — second book. I didn’t expect it to happen this soon. Hell, I wasn’t sure I’d even get the first one published.

My debut book was a ranch romance — small-town feel, wide open spaces, and cowboys with a lot of baggage.

And guess what? It did quite well. I can kind of live off it — just barely making ends meet, but hey, it pays my bills.

And now? I’m venturing into the world of sports.

It’s an entirely different feel. It’s noisy, fast-paced, and a little bit rough around the edges, but there’s something about it that’s really drawing me in.

Maybe I’m ready for the challenge, or maybe it’s just because my agent won’t leave me alone.

I know she’s right. I’ve got to write more books to keep the money coming in, and anything is better than my previous job — an online customer service representative.

“Wait—” Delilah breaks my train of thought, sounding very drowsy. “Why are you going to the ice rink?”

I blink. Did I tell her? I swear I did. Perhaps I meant to, then got distracted, and to be honest, it happens more often than I care to admit. “My next book. I’m planning on doing an ice hockey romance.”

She squints and then refocuses her eyes back on the road. “Okay . . .”

I sigh then click my tongue. “The problem is, I don’t have a clue about ice hockey. So, I’m going to watch some games and practices to get a feel for the slang and everything.”

“Sounds like a good idea, but can’t you just search that shit online?”

Yup, I tried already. Trust me, I hated leaving the house. I learned the basics — what a puck is and that the sport involves sticks and two goals — but I needed to know more.

Shaking my head, I reply, “Nah. Plus, it’s about the men too. You know how they are — banter and using all that weird slang, how they talk to each other on and off the ice. I have to see it and hear it. Besides, I’ve never even been to a rink, so I really have to picture it in my head.”

Delilah laughs. “Just admit you’re going to scope out some hotties, right?”

I go to speak, but she interrupts me. “I totally get it. A few of them come by the bar occasionally. But to be honest, it’s not very often. They tend to go to that other place, you know, with the women in those short skirts and those ridiculous drinks with silly names.”

Hotties.

The word barely even registers before my stomach flips. Men?

I haven’t even thought about them in ages, not in that sense.

Going to a bar full of drunk people makes my skin crawl.

“Seriously, guys are the absolute furthest thing from my mind, Dee.” I shoot her a sarcastic eye roll and a dismissive hand, but she’s beaming like she has some inside information I don’t.

Letting it slide, I continue gazing out the window as the rink finally comes into view.

“Right. You’ve got everything? Really, I should have asked before we left,” Delilah says, coasting into the parking lot and turning off the engine with a nonchalant flick of her wrist.

Even if I did forget something, I wasn’t going to mention it, not after disturbing her. I don’t want to make the veins in her forehead pop out again.

I still do a quick scan. Got my bag? Yes. Phone? Yes. Notepad? Uh . . . yes.

This time, I really take in the rink. It’s enormous, like really big . . . intimidating. My chest tightens, vibrating with a pulse so loud it echoes in my ears. Without thinking, my fingers find my bag strap.

“Oh, sugar. I’m nervous.” The words escape before I can stop them. I can feel my nostrils flare. Yeah, they tend to do that when I get embarrassed or tense.

Delilah’s brows knit together, and her eyes scan my face. “Why?”

A swarm of restless wings flutter in the pit of my stomach.

“Well, it’s my second book. I hate leaving the house—” The words come out unsteady, catching slightly in my throat.

Dee takes one of my hands. “Relax, Fawn. You’re gonna be okay. Seriously, just look at you. You released your debut four months ago, and it’s taking off. You’re doing amazing. You’ve got this.”

I breathe slowly, and her words wrap around me like the hug I need right now. She always manages to say the right things that somehow calm me down.

Besides, she is right. The problem is that, occasionally, I forget I’m going to be okay. Sometimes, I just let all the negativity consume me. My brain’s full of worst-case scenarios.

I nod, inhale, then exhale again. Delilah lets go of my hand and stretches. “I’d come in with you, but I look like Miss Trunchbull from Matilda right now.”

Oh gosh, she isn’t wrong.

Shaking my head, I try not to look like I agree. “It’s okay. You’re right. I’ve got this.”

She bumps shoulder with mine. “Damn right, you do. I might as well stay awake for you now. So, text me when you’re done. I’ll pick you up.”

Before I can leave the car, she reaches behind her, pulls her denim jacket off the back seat, and places it on my lap. It’s hot — why am I going to need a jacket?

“Fawn, it might be summer, but you’re going into an ice rink. Ice . . . Cold . . .” she explains like she can read my thoughts.

Yup, that makes perfect sense. I’m in a floral summer dress, so . . . I thank her and mentally prepare to enter the ice rink.

I can do this.

Right?