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I bite my bottom lip, studying our hands. With an exhale, I drag my focus to his face.

He’s a handsome guy—soft curls falling over his forehead, gray-blue eyes always filled with interest, like he’s actually listening. That lopsided grin he wears when he’s trying to cheer me up.

More importantly, he’s kind. He’s never pushed. He’s never made our interactions uncomfortable. And he’s never made me feel like I should be someone other than myself when I’m around him.

Also, he’s right—I always have fun with him. And maybe, just maybe, going with him will help me stop conjuring the image of Michael going with Sienna.

Besides, if I do end up leaving for Boston, this will likely be my first and last dance here. Cade is always good company, so I can count on him to make the night go well.

I inhale slowly, steadying myself. “Okay, I’ll go to the ball with you.”

“We’ll have a great time.” He brushes his fingers over my knuckles, a beautiful smile playing on his lips. “I’ll make sure your first dance is one you’ll never forget.”

“Careful making such big promises,” I tell him, trying to sound as enthusiastic and cheerful as he does.

“I can back them up.” He shoots me a wink. When we reach my locker, he stops and leans against the one beside it. “Is your mom picking you up today?”

I nod, the dread in my stomach stirring to life again. “I can’t wait to go home. Today has been a long day.”

My heart gallops, my chest heaving as I force oxygen into my lungs and skate toward the boards. A few pieces of hair have escaped my neat bun, so I blow them out of my face as I slow down. I’m thirsty, my whole body aches, and I’m pretty sure a nasty bruise is forming on my right knee after my fall during that last jump’s landing.

I was distracted at the end of practice. Of course I was. Because Michael could walk in at any minute. His practice is set to start soon. My mind was on him when it should have been on my routine. As a result, my blade caught the ice a fraction sooner than it should have. I hit the landing on one foot and wobbled, trying to maintain my balance with my hands outstretched, but I still dropped to my right knee. The pain that shot through my leg was intense. I’m afraid to even look at it.

“What happened in the last couple of minutes?” Elena asks, holding my gaze. “You were locked in, focused and determined, but then, it all fell apart.”

I lick my dry lips. “I’m sorry. Just got in my head a bit. I’ll do better tomorrow.”

She smiles warmly. “You’re incredible on the ice. You know that, right? If you want something, you make it happen. Single or pair, it doesn’t matter. Dean still asks about you, by the way.”

I stand a little straighter, surprised.

“It’s impressive, really,” she says with a soft laugh, “considering you two only skated together twice, and that was a year ago.”

Heat crawls up my neck, and I fight back a shy grin. Dean is nice. And insanely talented. Skating with him felt…good. Comfortable in a way I didn’t expect.

“Thank you,” I say, sticking with responding to the compliment only.

“You’re most definitely welcome.” She nods. “Have you talked to your parents about Paloma? She would be a great fit for you if you choose to stay here rather than come to Boston.”

“My parents and I are still talking.” I clasp my hands in front of me to keep them from trembling. “We want to make a decision before winter break.”

“Good. That’s good.” She tucks her tablet under her arm and glances at her watch. “I’ve got to get a couple of things done before Krissy gets on the ice. Bye, Solnyshko. And don’t forget to show your parents your right knee.”

“Will do. See you tomorrow.” As I skate away, a couple of hockey players come into sight.

Dammit. I really don’t feel like seeing Michael today.

Mom sent me a text to let me know she’s running a few minutes late, so I take my time changing into blue jeans, an oversized pink hoodie, and pink sneakers. Instead of redoing my bun, I let my hair down and hide most of its length under the collar of my hoodie.

The moment I step into the hallway, my eyes meet Michael’s, and my heart stutters.

He’s in his hockey gear, his helmet under his arm, the number 7 on the side of it. His hair is a mess, as if he’s been running his fingers through it more often than usual.

“Hi.” I give him a tentative wave. “Shouldn’t you be at practice?”

“I was waiting for you.”

“Why?”