Chapter 18. In Which My Enemy Calls Me Hot, and I Almost Eat It on a Slab of Ice
IN WHICH MY ENEMY CALLS ME HOT, AND I ALMOST EAT IT ON A SLAB OF ICE
On Wednesday, I set out to visit Luca at the ice arena.
It’s the last thing I want to do after learning that he backstabbed me at the peace party. But this is not a visit for pleasure. I’m on a mission.
As I make my way to Luca after eight hours of lectures, laboratories, and study sessions, I overhear two mentors talking about the motorized, robotic quacking ducks from the Robo Pond.
They were apparently stolen and hidden inside Cabin Chi, which kept the cabin up all night.
When I stop by the Food Laboratory to pick up a latte for Luca—in movies it’s always the little gestures that make someone fall in love—Ophelia stops me to gossip about how Cabin Epsilon caught a bunch of wolf spiders and released them into Cabin Iota.
By the time I finally reach the arena, I’m gripping the latte like a life buoy, and my heart is racing as fast as the speed of light.
The stakes are getting higher here each day.
I enter, standing behind the low wall encircling the rink, and see Luca.
He moves quickly on the ice, his curls shifting wildly in the breeze.
I expected him to be in a traditional hockey uniform, pads, and whatever else hockey players bubble wrap themselves in.
But besides his helmet, he’s just in a fleece jacket and tight tracksuit bottoms.
Anger billows inside me.
I want to confront him about what his cabin did. How hurt I am. But the only way my cabin’s payback will work is if he thinks we’re clueless.
And the only way I can crush his heart is if he believes I’m naive and in love.
Luca doesn’t notice my presence. He’s too focused on perfecting a particular shot, repeatedly slapping the puck in the direction of the goal.
From the closest blue line, he raises his stick high behind his back.
The stick bends, and then he’s shifting his weight and flexing every muscle in his arms, whipping the puck across the rink.
The puck clatters into the goal in under a second.
My gaze narrows at the movement. Newton’s laws of motion would dictate that exerting more force would help the puck achieve its objective. Yet Luca comes off as less powerful and more methodical than anything else.
Luca cuts around the ice while retrieving his puck, and we finally lock eyes. My pulse quickens. From rage. And hatred. Of course.
Taking a detour, he comes to a smooth stop beside me, kicking up a cloud of ice. “Didn’t expect to see you by the boards.” His smirk is back.
“Uh,” I say, incredibly prolifically.
Why is my mind going blank? I had a plan. I’m here for a reason.
Persuade Luca to bring the rest of his cabinmates to disco skate night at the ice arena on Sunday. Leave us with an opening to paint their walls electric. Flirt with Luca and win him over at every opportunity I get.
“I was just in the area,” I lie, suddenly remembering the latte in my hands.
I pass it to him while trying to mimic the way he always winks at me, only to come to an abrupt realization that I’ve never winked before in my life.
My mouth scrunches weirdly, and my right eyelid twitches as if a lash has violently scraped my cornea. My left eye also somehow half blinks.
“Whoa, thanks, buddy,” Luca says as if he didn’t notice the worst thing I—nay, any human—have ever done. For the first time in my life, I’m thankful for his record-breaking obliviousness. He temporarily hands the coffee back to take off his helmet and set it on the floor of the rink.
“You can keep practicing if you’d like.”
“No, I should take a break. You’re here.” Then he winks—perfectly and effortlessly, no off-putting twitches or mouth pulls.
“So, uh.” I try to think of a normal question someone could ask in this moment. “How’s the rink?”
“Wicked.” Luca skates away from the wall—the boards, apparently—to spin in a circle. “I expected a little local town rink. But this rivals Cornell’s stadium. It’s been amazing while I’ve been trying to fix this one play I’ve been struggling with.”
“You? Struggling at something?” I ask, responding genuinely to the passion in Luca’s voice. “You’re the best player on your team.”
Luca winces and rolls his left shoulder. “Earlier this year, I screwed myself up pretty badly at the state championship. I got checked in just the right way where my shoulders compressed together and dislocated.”
“Oh my God. That’s awful.”
“Hey, I’m just thankful most scouts had already offered on me before then. But it’s been an adjustment, relearning how to use my body. My slap shot has been messed up since.”
“Is that the move you were doing just now?”
“Yep. You ‘slap’ the ice behind the hockey puck, then use your weight to flex the stick. That’s the key to making the puck fly faster than it would’ve if you’d struck the puck directly.”
My whole body perks up.
That’s not hockey. That’s physics.
“I get it,” I say quickly. “You strike the ice first to build up energy, then transfer it to the puck. That built-up kinetic energy after impact makes the puck reach a faster speed than if you had hit it directly.”
“Exactly,” Luca says, more enthusiasm in his voice now, too. “My slap shot used to hit around eighty to ninety miles per hour. My record is 96.9.”
“Is that fast?”
He shrugs. “The record in the NHL is 108.8.”
So, he’s basically NHL level.
“I see,” I drone.
“But now my slap shots are mad slower,” Luca says.
“I’m hitting around seventy-two. At first, I assumed I’d lost my core strength after being off the ice for a few months, dealing with PT.
But since then, I’ve made my whole workout routine more intense.
I’m in the gym here every day after lab.
Before bed, I do planks and wall sits in the cabin.
They’re hell, but Coach says they’re key. ”
Throughout the years, I’ve admittedly noticed how Luca has filled out his sweatshirts and jeans.
And I’m not the only one. Competition photographers always take more shots of Luca than me, even before he’s announced as the winner.
He doesn’t just beat me with his intelligence.
He beats me with that sculpted face. Those round, charming cheeks. Those golden ratio lips.
Luca tilts his head at me.
Shit—I mean, shoot. I’ve been staring at said lips.
Who am I kidding? I definitely mean shit. In a situation like this, I’m breaking Mom’s no-swearing rule.
“I can tell you work out,” I say through a throat clear.
“Uh, thanks,” Luca says with a confused chuckle.
My soul desires death. “Release and accuracy trump speed when it comes to a good slap shot, so I shouldn’t care how fast mine is.
But I feel like I’ve lost something. I’ve tried changing my shoulder position to fix it.
And altering the angle of my arm at the height of my upswing.
I’ve tried tons of new hand positions. I even lowered the flex of my stick from eighty-five to seventy-five to help with putting too much weight on my shoulder.
” He shrugs. “I’m Expert Kinesiology here. I should be able to get this.”
Unless this isn’t a kinesiology problem.
“Maybe it’s a physics problem,” I remark. And one that, selfishly, I want to solve. Is there something that a genius like Luca isn’t considering?
There must be an answer.
“Maybe,” Luca says. He’s skating back to the boards. “You know how to skate?”
“Sure,” I say, even though I do not. But for Luca, of course, I’m an expert at willingly putting myself in a freezing-cold box where tripping and falling and dislodging my shoulder are imminent. That’s what he would want someone he’s in love with to say. I think.
Except. Luca may then expect me to get on the ice.
“No,” I immediately backtrack.
Luca makes a face. “What?”
“What?”
“You said yes, and you said no.”
“I’ve skated before,” I say, holding up a finger a bit too much like I’m asking for riddles beneath a bridge, thanks to my frenzied state. I pull it back down. “I did a photo shoot on ice skates when I was twelve. I sucked so badly that they glued my skates down to stop me from falling.”
Luca points over my shoulder, toward a shelf lined with skates up for grabs. “Want to learn how to stay upright?”
I would rather get hit by a dozen iron meteorites.
“I prefer to retain motor control of my feet,” I say much more politely. “It’s not just ice skates. Rollerblades. Snowboards. They cause injuries too easily.”
A sly grin rides up Luca’s face. “Because Prince Charming can’t have any cuts and scrapes on his beautiful face.”
I frown at his millionth attempt at making fun of me, even though he’s right.
“I won’t let you get hurt,” Luca offers, holding out an inviting hand.
My mouth squirms despite the little thump my heart does. He’s pretending to care about my well-being. This must just be further manipulation while he secretly plots ways to crush me.
But I do need time to persuade Luca to attend skate night with his cabinmates. Especially to make it come off as naturally as possible without arousing any suspicion.
I go grab a pair of skates in my size, then return to slide them on and tie the laces. As I clamber my way toward the opening in the boards, Luca watches me carefully, like he’s just waiting to save me from falling. Of course he assumes I’ll fail.
“This isn’t so bad,” I say as assuredly as I can.
Immediately, my balance falters. I grip on to the boards for dear life.
Luca holds out his hands, encouraging me to let go and place my support on him instead of the boards. “Keep your knees bent to maintain your balance.”
“We’re leaving the wall already?”
“You’re famous for being a quick learner, aren’t you, Mr. Prince List?”
Eye roll. “Yeah, at math. Not this.”
Luca chuckles. It’s confusingly genuine. “I got you.”
My chest flips in a way that I’ve never experienced, much more than just a thump this time. Tingling runs through my body, and my throat goes dry.
I’m just uneasy about holding my enemy’s hand. I must be.