Curvy, Clumsy and Crushing (Hearts in Bloom #2)

Prologue

Gwen

I am not supposed to be nervous.

This matters because if I’m nervous, it means something feels wrong, and when something feels wrong, something usually goes wrong.

I don’t get nervous about things like this.

I get annoyed. I get sarcastic. I get prepared.

Nervous is reserved for dentist appointments and conversations that start with, “We need to talk.”

This is a charity ice hockey event. An event my stupid colleague, Leo, made me sign up for because my big mouth thought I could beat him at his stupid dare.

There’s music playing in the stadium. Fairy lights are strung along the rink.

A banner reads “Grizzlies x Blades” in looping red script, which is frankly doing a lot of heavy lifting for an organization that has decided to involve ice.

There are people. It feels like thousands and thousands of people.

Tess said I should picture them naked, but I look around, and I’m not sure I want to.

I am here to prove that I do not back down from a dare. That’s it. That’s the whole point. Besides, there’s no way my name gets picked from the bowl. No way. I’m not here to skate. I’m not here to fall. Nothing will happen.

“I can tell you’re spiraling,” Tess says, bumping her shoulder against mine. “Your eyebrows do that thing.”

I look at her.

My best friend. My boss. The girlfriend of my new enemy.

Leo stands beside her, a man who smiles like he knows something I don’t and is enjoying the wait.

“My eyebrows do not do a thing,” I say.

“They absolutely do,” Leo replies. “They knit. Like little anxious caterpillars.”

I blink. Slowly.

“Why are you looking at me like that? And since when are you an ice hockey fan?” I ask.

Leo is wearing a hoodie with the Grizzlies logo, his hands in his pockets, his posture loose and relaxed.

He looks perfectly at home here, which is unfair.

He looks like someone who belongs in a place where people skate effortlessly, cheer loudly, and don’t worry about how their thighs look in borrowed thermal leggings.

“I have always been a fan,” Leo shrugs. “And I’m utterly happy you came,” he adds innocently.

If Tess could have physical heart eyes, this would be the moment.

The rink is buzzing with energy. People crowd around the boards, laughing, taking pictures, clutching hot chocolate like it’s a personality trait.

Players are already on the ice, gliding in lazy, practiced arcs that make it look like gravity is optional.

It feels strangely elegant for a sport like ice hockey.

I tuck my hands into my coat sleeves and scan the crowd, trying to calm the low hum under my skin.

“You’re being weird,” I tell Leo as he hums beside me. Leo never hums.

“I’m always weird, according to you, at least,” he shrugs.

“No,” I say. “You’re being extra weird.”

He grins. “I don’t know what you mean.”

I narrow my eyes.

Earlier this week, I made a decision. A tiny one. A stupid one. The kind of decision you make when you’re trying to prove something to yourself and not think too hard about the consequences.

I put my name in the bowl. The raffle bowl. I could’ve said no. I could’ve been petty and called off the dare, but here we are.

I did it because I was tired of being the person who always said no. I did it because I told myself I could leave before it happened. I did it because I am, apparently, delusional. I did it because there’s no way my name will get pulled.

“I put my name in the bowl,” I sigh now, watching Leo carefully.

He doesn’t react. At all. Just a nod like this is information he’s already filed away. Interesting. And definitely suspicious.

“Very brave,” he says, a smirk on his face. Everything he does makes me suspicious now.

“Why are you smiling like that?” I ask.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re about to tell me this was all part of some plan.”

Leo presses a hand to his chest. “Gwen. I would never.” He looks genuinely shocked by the accusation.

“Why did you have to date the intern?” I sigh to Tess.

“I sometimes wonder myself,” Tess replies, making me laugh.

“Well, Gwen, you’re the one who wanted to face your fears,” he points out. “Personal growth. Very on-brand for you this year.”

“I did not say ice was one of my fears.”

“You didn’t say it wasn’t.”

I open my mouth to argue, then stop.

Because here’s the thing: I don’t actually hate ice skating. I hate the version of myself that ice skating tends to produce, the one who flails, the one who draws attention, the one who becomes a punchline. The one people stare at and laugh at.

I have always been the DUF. Early on, I gave myself the label: the designated ugly friend.

The funny one. The clumsy one. The fat one.

The girl you bring along because she’ll make everyone laugh and never make things awkward by being desirable.

Never a threat. The one you can leave around your boyfriend because it “doesn’t matter” anyway.

I shove that thought down.

“This is different,” I say. “This is public.”

“So is life,” Leo says.

I stare at him.

“You sound like a motivational poster.”

“I contain multitudes.”

“Are you two done?” Tess sighs, though I can tell she’s enjoying every second of our banter.

The announcer’s voice booms over the speakers, cheerful and loud, thanking sponsors and donors and reminding everyone that tonight is about community, connection, and fun.

Fun.

The bowl is visible now, held up by a volunteer in a Grizzlies beanie. I can see the folded slips of paper inside, my name somewhere among them like a tiny ticking bomb.

I shift my weight.

Leo watches me.

“You ok?” he asks, quieter now.

I shrug. “I will be. Probably.”

He bumps my shoulder. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. If you’re really uncomfortable.”

I glance at him. “You say that, but I feel like you’re actively rooting for chaos.”

“I am rooting for you,” he says. “Chaos is a bonus.”

I snort despite myself.

“Why do I feel like you’re hiding something?” I ask.

Leo’s smile widens just for a fraction of a second.

“Because you know me.”

The announcer starts explaining the rules of the on-ice portion. Whoever is called to skate has to reach the blue line. That’s it.

The crowd cheers. Somewhere behind us, Tess lets out a low, amused hum, like she’s clocked the tension and is enjoying the show.

I glance back at the bowl.

Then at Leo.

Then back at the ice.

A bad feeling settles in my stomach. Not dread, exactly, more like anticipation sharpened to a point.

“Leo,” I say slowly. “Did you talk to anyone? Did you pull a string?”

He blinks. “Define talk. And string.”

I point at him. “You did do something.”

“I always do something,” he says cheerfully.

“That is not comforting.”

The announcer reaches into the bowl.

My heart kicks.

Hard.

I tell myself it’s fine. The odds are low. There are dozens of names in there. This is adrenaline I’m feeling. My brain is being dramatic. This is nervousness. Maybe anxiety, even.

Leo leans in, his voice low, teasing. “Imagine if you got pulled.”

I glare at him. “Imagine if you tripped on your own shoelaces in front of all these people.”

He laughs. “I’d own it.”

I swallow.

The announcer pulls out a slip of paper. The rink goes quiet.

I don’t look at Leo. I don’t look at Tess. I stare straight ahead, pulse roaring in my ears, and think: You did this. You chose this.

And somewhere, deep down, a tiny voice whispers: But did you?

The announcer unfolds the slip of paper. There’s a pause. A dramatic one. The kind that exists solely to torture people who already regret their life choices.

I squeeze my hands together inside my sleeves and breathe through my nose, slow and steady, like Tess taught me when the ovens went down last winter, and everything smelled like panic and burnt butter.

This is fine.

This is a fundraiser.

This is not a referendum on my worth as a human being.

“First up,” the announcer says, voice booming through the rink, “we have…”

Leo hums quietly beside me.

I whip my head toward him.

“Do not,” I hiss.

“Do not what?”

“Do not hum like you’re watching your favorite show.”

He grins. “I really love suspense.”

“I will end you,” I whisper.

Tess snorts from my other side, clearly enjoying this way too much. “You’re both terrible,” she says, but there’s fondness in it. She nudges me gently. “You ok?”

I nod automatically. Then pause. Then shrug. “Define ok.”

“That bad, huh?”

I glance at the ice. The Grizzlies players are lined up near the boards, relaxed and loose, like this is just another day at work.

They’re massive in that quiet, controlled way athletes are.

All muscle, balance, and confidence. The kind of men who have never once questioned whether their bodies might betray them in front of an audience.

I swallow.

“I don’t want to be a joke,” I say softly.

Tess’s expression changes immediately. It sharpens. Grounds.

“You won’t be,” she says, without hesitation.

I want to believe her.

The announcer clears his throat again. “Our first participant is… Gwen.”

The world tilts.

Not dramatically. Not in a cinematic swoon. It’s subtler than that, like gravity shifts half an inch to the left, and my body has to scramble to adjust.

The crowd cheers.

Actual, real cheers. Polite, supportive, charitable cheers. Which somehow makes it worse.

I stare straight ahead.

No.

No, no, no.

Statistically improbable. Suspicious.

Slowly, I turn my head toward Leo. He is biting the inside of his cheek.

“Oh,” I say.

He looks at me, eyes bright, guilty, and completely unrepentant.

“I didn’t rig it,” he says quickly. “That implies fraud.”

“You absolutely rigged it,” I reply.

“I nudged the universe,” he says. “Very gently.”

“You pulled a string,” I accuse.

He lifts a shoulder. “Maybe I know a guy.”

“You know a guy on the Grizzlies,” I say flatly. “You have an insider.”

“I know a couple of guys on the Grizzlies,” he corrects. “One of them is very good at following instructions.”

Tess crosses her arms. “Leo.”

“What?” he says. “She put her name in the bowl.”

I did. This part is important. I did this. No one forced me. No one tricked me into writing my name on that little slip of paper, folding it once, and dropping it into the bowl as if I were brave and spontaneous and not deeply aware of my own center of gravity.

But knowing Leo tampered with fate, even just a little, makes everything sharper. If I survive being on the ice, I will get him back.

“Why,” I ask slowly, “would you do that?”

He looks at me. Really looks. His teasing softens.

“Because you’re always the one on the sidelines,” he says. “And you never get pulled into the middle unless you put yourself there. I just… helped.”

I open my mouth to yell at him. Nothing comes out. Because beneath the meddling and the chaos and the billionaire audacity, I know what he’s saying is true. And, weirdly, it sounds nice when he says it like that.

I am the helper. The support. The funny one who claps the loudest for everyone else. I am very good at standing outside the spotlight.

The announcer’s voice cuts back in. “Gwen, if you’ll make your way to the ice…”

“I don’t have to,” I say immediately.

Leo nods. “You don’t.”

Tess nods too. “You really don’t.”

The crowd doesn’t know that yet. They’re still clapping, still waiting, still assuming this is all part of the fun.

I look down at my boots. The skates heavy, unforgiving. Already judging me.

My heart is racing now, but not in the panicked way I expect. It’s fast and loud, yes, but there’s something else underneath it.

Defiance.

I think of every time I’ve laughed something off so no one else would feel uncomfortable. Every time I’ve said, It’s fine, when it wasn’t. Every time I’ve watched someone else be chosen.

I think of how I put my name in that bowl with shaking hands and told myself I could leave before it mattered.

It matters.

“Gwen,” Tess says gently. “Whatever you decide, we’ve got you.”

I nod.

I take a breath.

Then another.

“I’m going,” I say. I quickly take off my jacket and hand it to Tess.

“You look amazing. You’re going to do great,” she says, trying to convince me. I hear her words, but they don’t really register.

“I’m going on the ice,” I say again, like I need to hear it out loud.

Leo’s eyebrows shoot up. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” I repeat. “If I fall, I fall. At least it’ll be on my terms.”

Tess smiles. “That’s my girl.”