“Hey, Zev?”
“Yeah?”
She points to the top box in my arms. “You got the wrong size. Those are for kids, not high schoolers.”
It takes a second to process, then I look and sure enough, the label screams YOUTH in bold red letters. I feel my ears burn. “Good catch,” I say, grinning in spite of myself. “Could’ve been an expensive mistake.”
She shakes her head, but I can tell she’s holding back another smile. “See you around, Coach.”
“Yeah. See you, Princess.”
She doesn’t correct me.
The air where she stood seems lighter. I put the boxes back, pick the right size this time, and head for the checkout, feeling both embarrassed and relieved at once.
On my way out, I glance at my old jersey behind the counter. The clerk rings me up and hands me the receipt without making eye contact.
As I step into the evening, arms full of gear, the memory of her voice lingers.
So does the scent of roses.
CHAPTER 5
GRACE
If you’d asked me at the end of high school where I’d be at twenty, the answer wouldn’t have been here—straddling a sagging couch at the edge of a party, mortified by the presence of three ex-NHLers who I’d rather eat glass than see again. But life, like the universe, loves irony.
It’s Thursday night, the last day of rehearsals. Tomorrow is opening night for this season’s Reverie Ice Show. Only neither Charlotte nor I plan to drink at this party. Showing up hungover to the first big show of our careers would probably end them. Instead, we’re experiencing this party sober. Which means dealing withthemwhile sober. Again.
Charlotte is already on the dance floor, or what passes for one. She’s sandwiched between two of the chorus girls, shouting the chorus to “Mr. Brightside” into a soup ladle.
She catches my eye, beams, and points to her plastic tiara. It’s bedazzled, the words “Ice Queen” spelled out in micro-glitter along the band. I can’t help but laugh.
Until I spot Connor entering the room.
He’s wearing a Reverie track jacket like it’s the last shroud of dignity he owns. The music seems smothered by his very presence. It’s impossible to look elsewhere.
I’m aware that’s more from primal instinct than me wanting and failing to avoid him.
Connor isn’t alone. Behind him are Zev and Fowler, both of whom are physically incapable of fitting in any normal doorway without first ducking and turning their shoulders. The room rearranges around them in a matter of seconds, clusters of skaters and stage crew peeling away, making a path like they’re royalty.
As if.
Clenching my cup is all I can do to successfully suppress a snarl. Charlotte notices. She shoves the soup ladle at her nearest dance partner, squares her shoulders, and stalks over to me. “They’re not supposed to be here. Connor, sure. But not Zev and Fowler.”
“They’re not,” I agree. My tongue feels like it’s lined with sandpaper. My skin crawls. I pop the rest of seltzer water and really debate with myself if staying sober is worth it tonight.
It’s not until Zev’s laugh booms out that I realize the three of them have posted up at the end of the hallway, arms crossed, scanning the room like bouncers at a VIP lounge. Worse, I realize they’re looking for someone.
That someone is me.
“Let’s dance,” Charlotte says, suddenly bright. She hauls me up before I can protest and drags me into the linoleum clearing. The chorus girls cheer us on.
I let myself have fun. It’s a conscious permission given to relax in the face of the three biggest worries in my life. Charlotte’s a good dancer. But then the song ends, and I turn around and find the alphas are closer now.
Connor leans against the wall with a posture that would be cocky if it didn’t look so exhausted. His eyes flick from me to Charlotte to me again. Zev and Fowler flank him, but there’sa current of something—unease, maybe—buzzing between the three of them.
I don’t want to be the one to break the silence. I want to melt into the linoleum.
