“Did this morning not count?” I ask, still looking away. She taps her stick against the ice, clearly trying to get me to look at her, but I don’t. Looking at Peyton is distracting, and I cannot be distracted the first time I’m on the ice in front of everyone.
Especially if I want to keep up the illusion that I’m completely fine.
“No, because we didn’t even get on the ice,” she says, almost in a whine. Before I can catch myself, my eyes flick to hers. I quickly glance away, but it’s too late. She juts out her full bottom lip, and I suddenly remember how it felt between my teeth.
I swallow. “Yeah, and your muscles are going to thank me later.”
This morning was the first “session” I had with Peyton. Instead of warming up and hopping directly on the ice like she usually does, we spent about thirty minutes stretching, then another twenty talking about how much she misses her brother.By the time the ice skating team showed up for practice, Peyton hadn’t even stepped into the rink. She was irritated.
I was successful.
The less time Peyton spends on the ice alone, the less time she’ll spend self-sabotaging in her head.
Peyton’s lips part to respond, but a loud clap cuts in before she gets the chance. Everyone’s eyes snap to my mom, who finally pulls that hand out of her pocket and holds it in the air. I squint, focusing on the sleek strip of black fabric dangling from her grip.
“We’re going to play a game,” she says, her tone upbeat. “One person blindfolded. The other, guiding. This is about communication, intuition, and trust. Everything this team needs to win the LNHLs.”
A few chuckles float through the rink, but it’s the sound of Bailey’s voice that breaks through the noise. “Oh, Harlowe, you know all about those,” she teases, flashing her a taunting grin.
Harlowe just doubles it. “Yeah, and I can give you a lesson later if you’d like.”
“All talk, no action Yersie,” Bailey fires back.
But I can’t focus on their back-and-forth. My stomach’s already doing flips, unease creeping up my spine. Out of all the exercises, all the things my mom could have chosen, why,whydid it have to be blindfolds?
As my mom starts handing out the strips of fabric, my eyes drift to Peyton. My cheeks are scalding, flushed with heat, and I’m pretty sure hers are, too, though for a very different reason. With that smirk plastered on her face, I’m sure her muscles are burning.
“Stop smiling,” I command, dragging a hand through my hair. I exhale a steadying breath, but when I look back up, Peyton’s still grinning. “It’s not funny.”
Her tongue pokes at the inside of her cheek. “It’s a little funny.”
“It’s not.”
She’s still fucking smiling. “Okay. It’s not.”
“Let’s try to becivil,” my mom’s voice cuts in as she holds out a blindfold. My gaze drops to her hand, but my body doesn’t budge. Peyton doesn’t hesitate to grab it.
“You got it, Coach,” she chimes. My mom nods, moving toward the edge of the rink.
“I’ll take it first,” Peyton says. I watch as she pulls the blindfold over her eyes, fingers fumbling with it behind her head like she can’t figure out the damn thing. She mutters under her breath, trying to get it right, but the fabric keeps slipping.
I look away, grateful that her eyes are covered because it means she can’t see the flush in my cheeks, or the outline of my heart, pounding against my chest. And as she’s standing there, her jersey loose without the padding underneath, the silky black fabric tugged over her eyes, all I can think about is that night. Especially as she curses softly under her breath.
I remember how she whimpered my name. The way my tongue slid between the slick folds of her pussy. How her hands felt in my hair, gripping it tightly in desperation. I shouldn’t be thinking about it. I shouldn’t find myself enjoying the sight of her, all flustered and clumsy again.
But I do.
“Want some help?” I offer, forcing my tone to be cool. Peyton’s lips curl into a pouty frown, like she’s preparing to tell me off, so I decide to step in before she gets the chance. My gloved fingers graze against hers as she hands over the fabric,and I glide behind her, gently pulling it over her eyes. My heart pounds heavier, and I swear, when the blindfold presses to her cheeks, her breath hitches.
That soft lavender scent fills the air as my hands move behind her head to tie the knot. The pulse in my body travels to my throat, and I swallow hard in an attempt to drown it.
“Remind you of anything?” Peyton murmurs under her breath. Mine catches, which I know was her goal, so I mentally kick myself for helping her reach it. I don’t grace her with a response. I just pull the blindfold tighter, making another tense knot.
When she thanks me, I realize that I haven’t let go. I quickly drop my hands back to my side, pulling my stick from the hold between my thighs and gliding back into place across from her on the ice.
The crack of sticks against pucks echoes through the rink, and I glance around, watching the rest of the team beginning to play. I suck in a slow breath, letting the cold air sink to the very bottom of my lungs, and feeling them expand, my chest rising and rising, until finally, it collapses again.
“Alright, I’ll guide you,” I say, trying to keep my tone even. But there’s a slight waver in my voice when my eyes fix on her again. “Just… follow my voice, okay?”
