I don’t utter the truth—that I’ve been mainlining anxiety and iced coffee since six a.m.
Instead, I go with… “I’m just… focused.” On all the wrong things it seems. But I can still put the puck where it’s supposed to be. It’s a small comfort.
He snorts. “Focused on what? Murder? What’d I do to you, man?”
My brain keeps looping one question: Why hasn’t Artemis texted? I’m so fucking pathetic. He doesn’t owe me anything. We aren’t…anything.Hell, we weren’t supposed to repeat the first time it happened.
But the silence still prickles under my skin. I thought something shifted between us in the back seat of his car. A flash of memory accosts me like a stick to the face. The smellof clean leather, the sound of it squeaking beneath me as I thrust into his silky, hot mouth. The taste of pie after working up an appetite by coming down his throat.
Shit. My helmet suddenly feels too tight, my gloves too hot. I drive a shot so hard it smacks the crossbar and sends Colton cursing in two languages. Gus mutters, “Dude’s possessed.”
He’s not wrong. I feel it.
Another lap. Another shot. Another attempt at skating the thoughts out of my skull. They don’t go quiet. They just circle louder like my skates cutting through the ice.
There’s a group of kids hovering near the plexi, they practice after us once a week. Their gear is held together by duct tape and hope. A pang shoots through my chest. This sport shouldn't just be for the millionaires like Artemis and his brothers and the legacy kids like me and my siblings. It should be for everyone. It should always be for whoever the fuck wants to play.
Artemis. Artemis. Artemis. Everything comes back to him, like fine threads of a tapestry. Does he regret the kiss…? The blow job…? Not messaging?
Probably not. Artemis de la Peña is above regrets. I’m such an idiot for even thinking about this, about him. Practice ends, and I sit in the locker room staring at my phone like it owes me rent.
Still nothing.
The steam from the distant showers blurs the mirrors, and the rhythmic thwack of tape being ripped off sticks fills the room, but I stayed frozen on the bench. Oliver flops onto the bench beside me, towel around his neck. “You haven’t blinked in a full minute. Should I call a doctor?”
“I’m fine.”
“Uh-huh. Is this about a guy?”
I shoot him a look. “Drop it.” My heart is racing. Whydoes he think it’s about a guy? Did I say something without realizing?
“Just checking you’re not backsliding into chaos hookups.” His stare needles me like an X-ray machine, straight to the depths of my bones.
“It wasn’t—” I stop myself. “It was nothing.”
“So, you’ve been staring at nothing for days on end?”
“I said. Drop. It.”
He does, but his silence is louder than his chirping. Usually, I tell him everything, more than I’d tell Sofia, the sibling I’m closest to. A pang hits me dead in the chest. The sibling I’m avoiding because she’d know with one look at me that something isn’t right, and I don’t want to tell her I’ve somehow caught feelings for the ice prince.
I shower. Dress. Walk back across campus with my hood up, the December cold biting at my cheeks. My phone stays silent. Each step makes something in me clench tighter. I trudge toward the quad, the freezing mist off the Lake slicing through my parka while the holiday lights on the student union mock my internal isolation.
Fine. He wants space? Cool. I’ll give him the whole damn solar system. I shove my hands deeper into my pockets and mutter to myself. “I’m done pining. I’m not a fucking maiden waiting by the window.”
A passing freshman hears me and walks faster, casting me wary glances as he does. Good. He should.
But the second I reach my bedroom door, my resolve fractures. Just a tiny check. One quick refresh. Maybe he—My notifications ping. Not Artemis.
Family group chat? Buzzing. Literally. The vibration is enabled on my phone because I hate myself and want tofeelif he texts.
Team chat? Buzzing.
Spam email from that mattress company? Buzzing.
We’ve been trying to reach you about your car’s extended warranty.
I’m being trolled by everyone. But nothing from him. I resent how much I’m waiting for it.
