Lily
Istretch languorously, spreading around, so comfortable I moan.
It’s only when I hear the chuckle that it occurs to me. My bed is most definitely not that comfortable.
I stand up abruptly, opening my eyes to a disturbingly familiar room.
Shit.
Everything comes back to me. So much delicious wine by the pool, laughing with Liv, Claire and Keller—more often than not, Cross too. And then, Jack’s mouth against mine. Ew.
“If I’d known you were such a cuddler, I would have lured you to my bed sooner.”
Fuck.
Propped on one elbow, Cross looks at me, that impossibly smug smirk firmly in place.
Sorry, buddy. She’s mine.
I jump to my feet.
“Err—sorry.” Relieved to see I’m still completely dressed, I look around for my shoes, finding them at the foot of the bed. “Thanks for erm—taking care of me. So long, bye!”
I run away, quick, shoes in my hands. Cross waves at me, looking far too entertained.
Somehow, it feels like I lost this a battle.
I let Olivia get to me.
I can’t stop myself, her words from last night keep running through my mind.
Maybe they never had a reason to bother.
She must be wrong. If they were good enough to win games, they would. The team sucks, right?
I decide I should find out. I have a week until their next game, but they train most weekdays in the evening.
Usually, I show up at the rink at ten, an hour before closing, when it’s almost empty, but on Monday, I make a point of arriving two hours earlier, in the middle of the hockey team’s practice.
I grimace, willing myself to think about anything other than my asshole ex. I have enough problems with the men currently in my life.
I act casual, pretending to open a textbook, headphones firmly over my ears, but I don’t bother to turn the music on, and I sneak peeks over the top of the book.
I’m somewhat disconcerted by what I see.
While I’m not a huge fan of the sport, never watching it on TV or attending a pro game in person, I’ve been to my fair share of hockey games in high school, given the fact that I dated a player.
I have a fairly good idea of how to spot good players.
Speed, precision, ruthlessness, strength.
I never really understood the point of ice hockey in California.
It’s a northern sport. Back in Michigan, our winters were cold enough to have decent snow, so most of us were into winter sports.
Sunny California doesn’t see much snow. I figured that the team never won anything because the players can barely skate.
I was so wrong.
I make a face. All right, they can skate. Cross, especially, is fast and precise, as at home on the ice as me.
“All right, team!” Cross calls. “Drill seven. Get your asses moving!”
They move in line, skating between cones, puck flying left and right between their sticks, not a single one of them missing a step.
How are they consistently losing every game? Is the rest of California this good?
“I don’t think I’ve seen you around before,” someone says.
It takes me a second to realize they’re talking to me. Glancing up from the book I’m not reading, I’m shocked to recognize the blonde in many of Cross’s pictures online. I even think I saw her in passing yesterday.
She wears a short skirt and a lovely red silky top with a deep sweetheart neckline under a cardigan. Perfect clothes for October in Thorn Falls. Not so much for the ice rink. She must be freezing her ass off.
“Oh, I come almost every day,” I say somewhat dismissively.
She lifts an eyebrow. “No. I would have noticed you.”
There’s no room for argument in her tone.
“And yet.” Rather than justifying myself further to a complete stranger, I return to my textbook, this time actually reading the words.
“So who are you watching? Carmichael? Goltz?” the blonde pushes, making me snort.
Who in their right mind would come here to stalk Markus Goltz? Dez would have their skin.
“Actually I’m waiting for them to finish so I can skate, if you must know.” I kick the triangular padded bag at my feet to illustrate my point.
“Oh, you’re in the skating class?” Her tone is suddenly a lot friendlier. “I want to try. Is it very difficult?”
I purse my lips. The beginner class right after the hockey practice takes up half of the rink, which is why I normally only show up after that. “No, I’m not part of the class. And skating’s pretty easy."
That is accurate, for me, but judging by the way some people penguin waddle before face planting when they first try, I am not certain that is a universal truth.
“Maybe I’ll sign up. But I’m not putting my feet in rentals. Where did you get your skates?”
I glance down at my bag again. Inside, I have Riedell boots fitted to me, with perfectly sharped blades. I had to save up for months before getting them. One glance at the blonde tells me price won’t be an issue.
“I’m from a skiing town. I got mine back home. I think there’s one in town—Pro Skate?”
“So you’re good at this, huh?” she guesses.
I shake my head. “Not really. I don’t compete or anything.”
That makes her laugh. “If I don’t compete is the bar, you’re basically almost a pro. Maybe you can teach me.”
I would rather put my hand into a shark’s mouth holding a steak than “teach” a perfectly well put together Bratz Doll used to perfection.
Something tells me she’ll be a major pain in the butt, blaming me for her failure.
“Oh, I would, but between my classes and the journal, I really don’t have much free time. ”
She frowns, apparently not used to being told no. “You’re here, aren’t you?”
I lift my textbook, annoyed to have to justify my actions to a complete stranger. “Working. And I skate to make sure I can eat as much pasta as I want without being the size of a house, but I don’t have time for a class on top. Plus, I’m sure the group class is great.”
I have no way of knowing that, but it’ll have to do because I’m not working for that chick.
She narrows her eyes. “I’d pay generously. I really don’t want to look ridiculous in front of a bunch of people in that group class.”
And looking ridiculous in front of me isn’t a problem because I don’t matter to her. Her expert eyes have already noted everything I wear, my bag, the way I hold myself, and certainly also the way I speak before deciding I’d be an appropriate servant.
Just like she judged me in a heartbeat, I am fairly positive that she’s a legacy. The arrogance is telling.
“Sorry,” I say, sticking to my guns. “I really don’t have time.”
She crosses her legs, assessing me. “What’s your name?”
Saying no to her means she wants to know who I am? It feels like a challenge, or a threat somehow.
“Lily Trueman.” I don’t ask for hers.
“I’m Paulina Thorn.” She says it like I should recognize the name. When I don’t, she adds, “My family founded Thorn Falls.”
Ah, that explains the haughtiness.
“Nice town,” I reply politely, turning the page of my book.
She doesn’t speak to me again. Instead, I feel her gaze on mine a fair few times as I work.
It’s lucky that I’ve seen what I needed to about the hockey team in the first few minutes, because I don’t dare look at them again, under her scrutiny. I focus on my work.
Close to the hour, I unpack my skates, shove my book in my bag, and get down the stands to the benches closest to the ice before switching my sneakers for my precious skates.
I keep the guards on and start to doomscroll on social media as I wait for the hockey players to vacate the ice.
They leave at the other end of the rink, closest to the changing rooms, and the Zamboni moves across the ice to smooth it.
Focused on it, I miss player eleven until he skates to a stop right in front of me, removing his helmet and mouth guard.
The blonde—Paulina—stands and waves enthusiastically. “Hey! Great practice, Cross,” she cheers, throwing her fist in the air like a good little team player.
Ah, a puck bunny. That explains why she sized me up.
“Hey, Lina.” Cross lifts his chin up to greet her. Then he redirects those changing amber eyes to me. “Lily darling. I thought you might show.” He flashes his smug grin. “Like what you saw?”
I lift my chin. “No idea what you’re talking about.”
“No? You weren’t checking out the team just now, to see how screwed you were?”
Come to think of it, I was rather obvious. I lie through my teeth anyway. “I was working.”
“Sure. And the fact you’re showing up to the rink for the first time in over a year has nothing to do with the little bet we have going on, huh?”
I say the same thing I told his puck bunny. “I come to the rink every other day, actually.”
“Sure. When everyone’s too busy having a social life to come here, late at night.”
I narrow my eyes. “Are you stalking me?”
Something cold flashes in his. “If I were, I’d tell you that it’s not smart for a young, pretty girl to walk around in the dark.”
I am suddenly highly uncomfortable, my mind on all the nights when I’ve skated with not a soul around other than the staff member who snores until closing time. Then I do walk from the rink in the Dome to the dorms or the parking lot—fifteen minutes or half an hour in the dark. He’s not wrong.
I pretend he’s not getting to me. “It’s Rothford. It’s not like there’s organized crime on campus.”
“No, just a ten-minute drive away in southie,” he retorts lightly, making my answer feel silly.
It’s far too close and he knows it.
I won’t tell him, but I’ll ask Jack or Olivia to wait for me from now on. Just to be safe. Maybe they can work in the stands like I did today.
“So, what’s your assessment, Trueman? You think me and my guys have a chance this weekend?”
“Not according to your track record,” I quip. And then, because I can’t help it, I press, “Why are you always losing, anyway? It’s not like you’re completely incompetent.”
That’s an understatement, and he knows it.
He tilts his head. “Why aren’t you a pro figure skater? It’s not like you’re completely incompetent.”
I open my mouth and close it.
My reasons boil down to, I don’t want to.
The pro skating circuit is competitive, bitchy, and dangerous.
There are so many injuries. The cost of coaching and competitions are also far out of my budget.
Basically, I might love watching and doing the sport, but I never saw it as a potential career.
I need stability, a nine-to-five with dental insurance and vacation.
I don’t want to push myself to manage triple axels, when I can manage a double without risking my health.
I don’t want a fall to cost me my career.
I’m the child of two middle class parents who still owe half their mortgage; I can’t afford dreams like skating or cosplaying for a living.
It hits me then: if they aren’t winning, it’s because they don’t want to.
“You’re lazy,” I accuse.
He shrugs, smirking. “The team’s registered, and Coach insists we compete. But all of us have our classes, professional commitments, other passions. Hell, I have two majors. We just play to stay in shape. Better than football. Less pressure, for one.”
Fuck.
“Who are you playing against on Sunday?” I ask, only it sounds like begging.
Please, please, please, make them very good. The best in the state.
“The Dragons,” he says.
The name’s not familiar, which says nothing: I haven’t paid any attention to hockey in California.
Before I can bring myself to ask, Cross tells me, “They fucking suck.”
Dammit.
I’m so screwed.