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That’s weird, right? I don’t know why I want that so badly. I just do.
I push myself onto the rink, pumping my legs to build up speed, skating as fast as I can to the opposite end, where I turn my blades to make a sudden stop. Most of the other guys on my team can’t do that yet—make a sudden stop without falling over.Stopping on a dime, Coach calls it. But I can.
I look up from the ice and find the red headed girl. I really want her to be impressed with the way I stopped.
I find her eyes, and they don’t look very impressed. If anything, they look the exact opposite. And a little annoyed.
“Are you ready to race now?” she asks, her arms folded in front of her.
I nod. “Yeah.” Then, before I can stop myself, more words come tumbling out of my mouth. “Ready to lose?”
Her brow lowers and her chestnut-brown eyes darken.
I feel my stomach twist in regret. I wanted to make her laugh. I guess that wasn’t the joke to do it.
I do that a lot. Tell the wrong jokes at the wrong times. My parents and teachers are always saying so. But still, normally, I make most people laugh most of the time.
Not this time. Funny, because I’ve never wanted to make anyone laugh as much as I want to make this girl laugh.
That’s weird, too, right? This is just a weird day, I guess …
She pushes herself forward to the red line that’s drawn across the end of the rink that we’re both near. I join her on it.
“Race to the other red line on the opposite side,” she says. Her brow is still low, her eyes still stormy.
I nod. “Okay.” I make sure to clamp down on my jaw so that I don’t say another wrong thing.
“On three. One … two … three.”
I push myself forward as hard as I can, my blades slicing into the ice. My legs are pumping at full effort immediately, my arms swinging with them to generate as much forward force as possible. The chill from the ice stings my face, but I can already feel the sweat building up on the nape of my neck and on my back underneath my sweater.
I’ve reached the middle of the rink, and I’m winning.
Waswinning.
In my peripheral vision, I see her pass me.
She’s not working her arms or legs nearly as hard as I am, but somehow she’s built up incredible speed. It’s like she knows exactly where on the ice to make contact with her blade, exactly how hard to push, exactly how to turn her skate just slightly at the perfect angle to generate more momentum.
I pull in a breath through my nose and try to make my muscles work even harder, but there’s no extra force I can summon. I’m skating as fast as I can, and the distance between us is only growing.
By the time I make it over the opposite red line, panting, my chest tight, my leg muscles burning, she’s standing nonchalantly with her hands on her hips, fixing an amused and victorious look on me, hardly having broken a sweat.
“Nope,” she says, her voice chipper. “It looks like Iwasn’tready to lose.”
A thought goes through my head: this girl is either going to be my best friend, or my worst enemy.
1
PHOEBE
Present day …
The accident ended my dream—not my life.
It’s one of those mornings where I have to tell myself that.
One of those mornings where I don’t want to get out of bed. Where I feel like I never want to get out of bed. I want to roll over, curl up under my blanket, and go back to sleep. And do the same thing the next time I wake up, and the time after that, and the time after that.
