Текст книги " Bittersweet"

Автор книги: Sarah Ockler

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

Chapter Fourteen

Cupcakes with Benefits

Vanilla cupcakes topped with whipped peanut butter cream cheese icing, milk chocolate chips, crushed pretzels, and a drizzle of warm caramel

“But youhaveto find a way to come to Toronto,” Dani says. “My parents finally caved and said I could bring you. We’ll have a suite overlooking the city and everything.”

“Don’t rub it in.” I flip the mixer on high and dump in a pile of shaved chocolate, batter churning into a clumpy mess. First time in history I get not one, but two invites for New Year’s, and Mom decides it’s the perfect night to pimp herself out to the local business community. “I’m rockin’ the couch with Bug and Dick Clark.”

Dani pouts and stamps her foot, kindergarten-style. “What about Mrs. Ferris?”

“Mom doesn’t want to impose. Besides, I dropped a small fortune at the gas company this morning. No way I can cover her New Year’s rates—she’s a total extortionist.” I pour another cup of milk into the cupcake bowl and scrape the sides with a rubber spatula, beaters growling against the paste.

“This is so not fair.”

“No kidding. What am I supposed to tell Will about our date? I haven’t even …” Perfect. So not how I wanted to tell her about me and Will, especially after canceling Christmas brunch on her yesterday. I flip off the mixer and tip the beaters upright. “Will asked me out for New Year’s. But it doesn’t matter, because I can’t go.”

Dani’s eyebrows shoot up under her corkscrew bangs. She’s gawking at me like I just pulled a cupcake out of … well … somewhere cupcakes aren’t supposed to come out of.

“Smoke break. Let’s go.” She grabs my arm and stomps across the kitchen, dragging me out through the back door.

“When did this happen?” she demands once we’re outside. “How?”

I lean back on the wall and rub my arms so the cold won’t stick. “At his house on Friday.”

“Ah, you mean the private tutoring session formerly known as ladies’ night?”

I shrug. “We were working on his essay and goofing around, and then … well … he kissed me. Like, for real kissed me. And then he asked me to dinner and Amir’s party.”

“He kissed you, and you didn’t tell me? That’s totally withholding information!” Her mouth hangs open, breath freezing white around the gaping hole.

“Relax, Detective Bozeman.” I laugh, but it comes out kind of jagged on account of I’m shivering my ass off in my supershort Hurley Girl getup. “This week was crazy with work and Christmas and everything—”

“You couldn’t call me?” Dani folds her arms over her chest. “Or tell me about it any of the five million times I saw you at work?”

“It was only six days ago! I didn’t want to get into it on the phone. And Trick and Mom are always around here, and we haven’t really hung out alone since—”

“Don’t remind me. Know who I spent ladies’ night with? Frankie Torres. Who is not a lady. And the Friday before that, we ditched plans to go to the game. And before that you had practice, so I didn’t even see you. Something wrong with this picture?”

Guilt bubbles in my stomach, but I swallow it down. She’s more upset that I didn’t tell her about Will two seconds after it happened than she is about an estrogen imbalance in her weekend plans. “You know I have a lot going on right now. I’ve only got five more weeks to train, and the scholarship—”

“Oh, right. How could I forget the all-important scholarship?” Dani throws her arms up, alerting a seagull that’s camped out behind the Dumpster. He screeches at her once and darts back into the shadows.

“It is important. Super-important. We’re talking about my life’s dream!”

She jams her hands in her apron pocket, shoulders clenched tight against the cold. “How come you never talk about it, then? You’re always gushing about Will and Josh and hockey, but you hardly ever talk about figure skating. And when you do, it’s never about how much you love the ice or how excited you are for the competition. All you care about is getting out of here, and that scholarship is a means to an end. You act like Watonka’s a prison sentence.”

The blood rushes to my head, chasing away the chill. “You act like it’s the only place in the world that matters. But it isn’t. There’s so much more to—”

“Yeah, yeah, I get you.” Dani edges backward to the kitchen doorway. “You hate Watonka, and you’ll do anything to leave. So now you’re hooking up with random hockey boys in exchange for ice time? Classy, girl. Real classy.” She kicks a chunk of ice across the pavement and disappears into the kitchen.

Back inside, I finish up that clumpy batch of cupcakes—passable, but definitely not my best work—and hit the floor for my breakfast shift. Thankfully, everyone in this town must be home ogling their Christmas loot, because it’s dead today. Dani and I have the space to work around each other, talking only when we absolutely have to. She runs my food when I’m in the bathroom, I deliver her drinks when she’s stuck with a chatty customer. She buses one of my tables, I cash out one of hers. We work as a team to get things done, but we don’t look at each other. And when Nat and Marianne show up for the next shift, I don’t wait around to split a plate of Trick’s corned beef hash at the prep counter or offer her a preview of my latest cupcake experiments. I just hang my apron on the hook, pack two non-clumpy cupcakes for the road, flip open my phone, and text the only person I know who doesn’t have any expectations of me—past, present, or future.

My blank canvas.

meet me @ fillmore in 1 hr? :-)

Josh leans against the signpost and tightens his laces, head bent beneath the thin ice warnings so that when he looks up at me and smiles, the Department of Parks and Recreation sends me a totally new message.

DANGER:

JOSH BLACKTHORN SMILING!

“Thanks for coming,” I say, returning his grin. “You totally saved me.”

He stands and blocks out the rest of the warnings. “Bad day at the diner?”

“Put it this way. Another five minutes and they’d be calling it ‘going waitress’ instead of ‘going postal.’”

“Wanna talk about it?”

“It’s stupid.” I say. “Things have been a little off with me and Dani lately. And now she’s pissed because Will asked me to Amir’s New Year’s thing and I didn’t call her five seconds later with all the gory details.”

“Um …” Josh rubs his head, looking out over the lake. “Wow.”

“Holy melodrama, right? Told you it was stupid.”

“No, I … um … so you’re going to the party with Will?”

“I’m not going anywhere with anyone. I have to babysit my brother.” I stab the ice with my toe pick and sigh. But then I realize I’m not exactly taking a stand against melodrama here, so I plaster on another smile. “Anyway, in exchange for your heroic selflessness in meeting me on such short notice, I have a present for you.” I reach into my jacket and fish out his USB drive.

“You’re regifting my music? Can you even do that?”

“No way.” I shake my head. “That would be a complete gift violation. This is your drive, but my music. Totally reloaded. There’s even some old obscure blues stuff on there from Trick.”

“Nicely done, Avery.” Josh slips the drive into his pocket and tugs his hat over his ears. “But don’t be too grateful. My motives weren’t all that selfless. I need help with the—shoot. Hang on.” He checks his ever-buzzing phone. Great. I hope Cougar Mama doesn’t show up at Fillmore. An ex-stripper against an ex-skater? Ladies and gentlemen, place your bets.

“Sorry, one sec.” He sends out a text, turns off the phone, and buries it in his jacket pocket. “Anyway, I totally suck at those backward crossover things you showed us. So, yeah. Help.”

I laugh. “Follow me.”

The indoor rink is definitely better for technical work, but I was actually starting to miss the ruggedness of Fillmore, my original secret spot. If I was more clearheaded when I left work, I probably would’ve just come here alone. But for once, I didn’t stop to analyze everything. I just did what I felt like doing.

I felt like being with Josh. No kissing, no coach secrets and weird family politics, no subtext. Just two friends hitting the ice.

Now I lead him through backward speed drills, slowly working him up to the crossovers. After several falls (his) and laughs (mine), he’s finally getting it, and I give him a wide space to perfect his moves.

I run through my figures as he works, looping across the runoff, skates rubbing uncomfortably against my toes and ankles. The leather has stretched with my growing feet; it’s thinned and scuffed in spots, torn near the eyelets, but the blades are still sharp. Like all my skates, my father got these for me. A brand-new, custom-made pair. I spent months breaking them in, working them on the ice until they were perfect, soft and buttery.

They fit me a whole lot better back then, just like the pair before that and the ones before that, all the way back to the very first time I ever felt the ice beneath my feet. It was during the winter Olympics more than a decade ago. I was a toddler, mesmerized by the twirls and turns on TV and the way the skaters’ feet seemed to float as if they were dancing on water. I’d never before wanted to be anything as much as I wanted to be that—a ballerina on ice. So one morning my father drove me to Miller’s Pond, this old place out in the country. He parked the car and came around to my side, kneeling in front of me with a big white box. I took it into my lap, legs dangling over the edge of the seat as I tore off the lid and pulled out miles and miles of tissue paper. Inside, two magical silver blades shone under soft leather boots, bright as snow. Dad laced them up and set me on the ice like dust on spun glass, and he pulled me around and around and around until my face was numb from smiling in the cold, the same question spilling from my lips for hours.

Please, can you take me again, Daddy?

Soon he’d be paying for lessons at the community center two towns over, then private instruction when they started throwing around phrases like “unlimited potential” and “incredible natural talent.” Not too long after that came Lola Capriani, and that was it. Pro track, all the way. Before he finally split, my father must’ve spent a boatload on my dreams, his entire future staked on the destiny I was supposed to claim.

Still, through all the winters of lessons and competitions, through all the dizzying spins and hard-earned bruises and medals, it never meant as much as it did on that first day at Miller’s Pond when he surprised me with those magical skates. That day, I really was a ballerina and he was my whole world and if I let myself now, I bet I could still feel the warmth of his hand around my tiny pink mitten.

Don’t worry, baby girl. I promise I won’t let you fall.

But I don’t let myself feel that warmth. Even now, as I prepare for another competition and wade through all the old memories, the ghosts of my father’s promises don’t take up nearly as much space as they used to.

“That’s it,” Josh calls out, skating toward me. “I can’t take it anymore.” He stops close, his face pink from cold and exertion. “Now that I’ve thoroughly embarrassed myself, how ’bout showing off some of your killer moves.”

“You’ve seen my moves.”

“Not really.” He stretches his arms out before the lake. “All this room. No walls. No rails. No Brad Nelson running his mouth. It’s just us and the seagulls. And I promise not to crash into you.”

I smile. “There you go, being a hero again.”

“You’re competing in a month, right?”

“One month, six days, and a handful of hours, give or take.”

“Then put your money where your skates are.” Josh nods toward the ice. “Come on, Avery. Show me what you’ve got.”

“That a dare, Blackthorn?”

He shrugs. “Call it what you like. You down?”

“Down? I’m about to make you wish you never got up,” I say, strictly for the cameras. What’s a high school action rom-com docu-drama without a few corny but well-placed one-liners?

I hand Josh the puffy outer layer of my jacket and push off with my toe pick, gliding backward to the other side of the runoff. I haven’t choreographed my full program yet, but with Josh smiling at me across the ice, I set my nerves to steel and silently count to ten.

A cold breeze rolls over my skin, and in the next heartbeat, the music starts in my head. Not “Bittersweet” this time. Maybe “Freaktown,” the Undead Wedding song with the paper birds that Josh likes so much. My muscles recall the beat and tense, uncoiling like a spring to launch me forward. I take long strides, tucking in my arms and head as I pick up speed. As I approach the edge, I look for the perfect spot to curve, looping at an angle as I gain momentum for my first jump. My skates cross over … one, two, one, two … and up … my feet drift through the air; I rise to the sky for a single axel. Josh whistles from the sidelines, but hold it, boy. I’m just getting warmed up.

I move through another set of jumps and spins, forward and backward, fast and slow, making up the sequence as I go. I speed up again, zipping around the perimeter of the runoff, legs burning from the effort, lungs on fire, heart ready to burst out of its cage, but this is it. This is the stuff I was made for, the freedom, the speed, the furious jog of my heart, the cold breeze biting my skin. When I look across the ice and see Josh watching me—really watching me—I spring into my triple flip.

But I know as soon as I leave the ice that I won’t get enough lift for the full rotations.

I manage to turn it into a double and land without wobbling.

Josh cheers, and I launch into another double, land, and twist immediately into a camel spin. The song in my ears starts to slow, and I let the spin fade into a gentle glide, the bright white sky motionless as I sail uninhibited beneath it. I push off one more time, gaining momentum, zooming closer and closer. Then, in my favorite finish, I cut my blades hard and shower him with ice.

Phishhhh …

I can almost hear Lola laughing. Enough showboating, greenblades. I was making moves like that when I was six. But she’d smile when she said it. And so would I.

“What do you think, fifty-six?”

“I think I’m glad I don’t have to skate against you in the competition.” Josh hands over my jacket. “You were wrong about one thing, though. You didn’t make me wish I never got up.”

His comment hangs in the winter air between us, blood rushing back to my cheeks as I catch my breath.

“I messed up that jump,” I say. “I’ve been working on this crazy triple/triple combo at Baylor’s. Back in the day, it was my signature move. Lost my edge a little.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“You’re not a skating judge.”

“You’ll figure it out in time, Pink.” Josh nudges me with his hip, but as usual, I don’t see it coming. He grabs me just before I fall, catching me against his chest, arms tight around my waist, neither of us moving for a moment.

“Hudson,” he whispers, and I look up into his eyes, so bright and blue in all this whiteness … my heartbeat quickens as he leans closer. His grip tightens and my legs go wobbly in a way that has nothing to do with slipping on the ice. He could kiss me. He could kiss me right now, and then I’d know for sure.

We’re alone out here, just us and the seagulls and the harsh December wind. I close my eyes and lean forward, ever so slightly, waiting for him to make the move.

Here’s your chance, Blackthorn! Now or never!

“Sorry,” he says, letting go of my arms as my eyes pop open. “I didn’t mean to knock you over. You okay?”

“I’m … um … I brought snacks!” My announcement is loud and awkward enough to wake all the ghosts of Fillmore, but it works to break the not-so-momentous moment. I skate over to my backpack and dig out the small box of cupcakes and some balled-up Fresh ’n’ Fast bags. Side by side, but not too close, we sit on the plastic bags beneath the signpost and chow down.

At least now I know for sure. Friends. Just friends. I can live with that.

“How lame is it that I have to stay home on New Year’s every single year?” I ask between bites of chocolaty goodness. “I swear, if I’m ever allowed out for the ball drop, Dick Clark will accuse me of cheating.”

Josh taps the blade of my skate with his. “You and Dick, huh? Sorry, I don’t see it.”

“Aw, you just don’t know Dick like I know Dick. Dick and I are like this.” I cross my fingers and hold them in front of Josh’s face. “Like this!”

Josh snorts, dropping crumbs down the front of his jacket. “The party isn’t all that, anyway,” he says, brushing them into the snow. “Believe me—your eight-year-old brother probably needs less supervision than those guys.”

“If you ask me, Bug needs no supervision. He’s the smartest, most well-behaved kid on the planet. I can’t believe Mom doesn’t—wait. That’s it! Josh, that’s totally it! You’re so brilliant I could kiss you! I mean, not kiss you, but … you’re really, um … smart.”

Okay, ice? If you’re thinking about killing anyone, now would be a great time to crack open and suck me under. No hard feelings, pinkie swear.

“Yeah, well.” Josh smiles, looking down the shore. “Last year Gettysburg tried to make out with a mounted deer head and Will woke up in Amir’s bathtub wearing one of Mrs. Jordan’s nightgowns. I’m still recovering from those images. I’m telling you, you won’t be missing much.”

“Exactly.” I lick the last drop of chocolate icing from my thumb and pull my gloves back on. “I won’t be missing it at all.”

Chapter Fifteen

Desperate Times Call for Desperate Cupcakes

Um … cornbread

By the time I convince Bug to accept my best-in-class New Year’s bribe—four custom cupcakes, unlimited television, and no set bedtime—and get to Amir’s, it’s well past eleven, and everyone inside is well past the “I love you, man” stage. I find Will immediately, his showstopper laugh rising above all the yellow plastic horns and sparkly, dollar-store noisemakers.

“You made it!” Will beams as I enter the kitchen and wraps me in a warm hug.

“Princess Pink, in the house!” Brad Nelson gives me a fist bump and pulls a pink-and-white feather boa from a box on the counter. “Saved it for you. It’s pink, get it?”

“Um, yeah. Thanks.” I smile and drape it over my shoulders, blending right in with the party people. It’s funny to think that just three weeks ago I was at Luke’s house with the same crowd of hockey boys, unsure if they’d ever accept me. They’d just won their first game in years. Josh gave me the music mix. And then Will pulled me into the crush of the living room, bass thumping through the speakers, all of us laughing and dancing, Will’s arms strong and steady as we bounced to the beat.

That night was when it all started—when they let me in for real. And now I’m a part of the group, not just for the hockey stuff, but as a friend, in on all the jokes, wearing my Princess Pink nickname like a badge, hanging out like I’ve always belonged. Not just with Will, but the other guys, too.

I glance over the mob, hoping against the odds I might find Josh. But I already know he isn’t here—I can feel it. He may not be the center of attention like Will, but his absence leaves a palpable hole in the vibe. Maybe after all his stories from last year’s party, Abby didn’t want to come.

“Where’s your friend tonight, mamí?” Frankie Torres steps in front of me, hands in his pockets.

“Blackthorn?”

“No. Danielle.” He says her name the longest way possible: Dan-y-elle.

I raise an eyebrow. “Dani has a family thing in Toronto.”

“Oh, right.” He looks across the kitchen, like maybe I made a mistake and she’s just hiding behind the fridge. “Does she ever say anything?” he whispers. “Like, about me?”

Frankie Torres … not a lady … something wrong with this picture …

“Honestly, we haven’t talked much lately,” I say. “With work and hockey stuff … we haven’t seen each other.”

“Oh, okay. Cool. I was just—”

“One minute, people!” Amir cuts the music and turns up the television, and Frankie and I merge into the living room with the rest of the crowd. The place is packed, and I end up in a chair across from the couch, separated from Will by a dozen warm bodies. Simultaneously, everyone joins in on the countdown, all of us watching the giant silver ball descend over Times Square.

“Five … four … three … two … one … Happy New Year!”

The horns and cheap noisemakers muffle the “Auld Lang Syne” trumpets blaring from the television, but that’s just fine by me, because that song always makes me cry. Paper confetti snows down around us, everyone drunk and swaying, hugging and kissing. Only Frankie Torres is alone, sitting on the couch and staring out the front windows as if he’s still hoping Dani might show. Right now she’s dancing in some fancy hotel ballroom while her dad’s jazz ensemble belts out this very song, and Josh is making out with Abby, and Mom is schmoozing the locals, and Bug’s back home, probably watching the same channel as me, swallowed up by the giant pillows on our couch, and I’m just—

“Where’s my girl?” Will calls out across the room. He smiles when he finally sees me, his eyes lighting up like there’s no one else here.

I look behind me, half expecting to see Kara there with open arms and a freshly glossed pout, primed for kissing. But there’s only me, rising dumbly from the chair as Will edges through the crowd, drink held high above a sea of people.

“Happy New Year, Hudson.” He grabs me with one arm and pulls me into a kiss. The feather boa crushes between us, its delicate feathers tickling my chin. His mouth tastes sweet from the red stuff in his cup, but his movements are intentional, not sloppy or drunk. His hand glides up my neck, tangling into my hair, and the kiss intensifies, my heart hammering so loudly in my ears that I no longer hear the celebration around us; I’m not part of it. My whole body reacts to his touch, skin heating up as his fingers trace lines down my neck, across my collarbone, erasing the rest of my thoughts.

Unnoticed, Will and I sneak down the hallway and slip into a room on the other side of the house. The space is small and mostly dark, some kind of office, illuminated only by the white-yellow glow of a streetlamp outside.

Will closes the door with his foot, his lips never breaking from mine. He backs me against the wall, and as my shoulders hit the cold, painted plaster, I give in to the current of him, melting beneath his touch. Slowly, he tugs the boa from my neck, feathers quivering as it falls to the floor. I slip my hands underneath his shirt, trailing my fingers over the smooth, knotted muscles of his back, all the way up to his shoulders. Beyond the window on the opposite wall, icy snow falls soundlessly from the sky, but in here, Will’s skin is warm, the heat of him radiating through my thin camisole, the ragged, uneven tide of his breath hot on my neck.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers in my ear, soft and hungry. I pull him tighter against my body and close my eyes, letting his words linger, his hands expertly moving down my back.

This is it, the kiss he promised, the midnight interlude I’d been warned about. But as good as he makes me feel on the outside, on the inside, I can’t stop my mind from wandering. Each time I try to catch my thoughts and bring them back to this moment, every cell of my body pressed against Will’s in the newborn moments of another year, I lose my way. It’s like driving in a blizzard, slowly inching along the road back home only to realize at the end of a long, cold night that you’ve pulled into someone else’s driveway, someone else’s life.

“You okay?” Will whispers, slightly breathless. He brushes a lock of hair from my eyes and kisses my face, but my hand is flat against his chest, holding him back. “We don’t have to do anything you—”

“It’s not that.” I slide my hand down his shirt and close my eyes, fingers tracing the ridges of his abdomen. “I’m sorry. I just … I feel kind of light-headed.”

“Do you want to sit?” He takes my hands in his and squeezes gently, nodding toward a desk chair behind me.

“I think I need some water.” I kiss him once more to alleviate his concern and duck into the hall. The bathroom is thankfully unoccupied; inside, I click the door shut and run my wrists under the cold tap, willing the chill into my veins, counting my heartbeats until they slow to a regular rate.

Will Harper. Until recently, he barely acknowledged my existence. Now, after just a few weeks of hanging out, he’s calling me his girl? Looking at me like I’m the only person in a crowded room?

His girl? Is that what I want? Is that who I want?

My thoughts drift again to Josh, that first day we met at Fillmore, his visits to Hurley’s, the backward crossovers, the music, all the jokes and practices. I know we’re just friends, but sometimes, when our laughter fades and he holds my glance a little too long, I swear he’s looking at me as something more. Not just a friend. Not just a skating bud, showing him those complicated crossovers again and again until he gets them right. But then his phone buzzes or he starts talking about something else and the thin, momentary thread connecting us breaks and I start to think I imagined the whole thing. Why can’t I get him out of my head?

I turn off the bathroom faucet. My hands are shaking, and I’m afraid to look at my reflection over the sink. It’s one thing to lie to your mother, your baby brother, even to your best friend. But alone in a tiny beige box of a room on the first of the year, there’s no hiding from yourself when you meet your eyes in the mirror.

Will Harper. Josh Blackthorn. The Capriani Cup. So much has happened this winter, so much has changed. I’ve changed. And maybe I’m not ready to see it yet. Maybe I don’t want to know the evidence, the smudged makeup, lips red from kissing, eyes burning with some new, unnamed intensity. So I focus instead on the old water spots, the fingerprints of everyone who lives here. I reach for the hand towel on the side of the sink and—

BANG! The door rattles against the frame.

“Just a minute,” I say. “Be right out—”

“Or …” The door swings open. “I’ll just come in.”

“What—”

“Yeah. Hi, Hudson. Happy New Year to you, too.” Kara shuts the door and leans her back against it, red liquid sloshing out over the cup in her hand. Mascara is smudged beneath her eyes and her long, strawberry blond hair is slipping from its headband, the ends tangling in a black boa around her neck. I didn’t see her in the crowd before, but of course she’s here.

“Don’t worry, I’m not planning to stab you with an ice pick. At least, not with all these witnesses around.”

My eyes flicker to the sink, but there’s nothing but a bar of soap and a cup full of frayed toothbrushes. Sure, a dental instrument to the eye might sting for a minute, but as far as self-defense weaponry goes, the Jordans’ bathroom is severely ill-equipped.

Kara downs her drink and tosses the plastic cup into the bathtub. It rattles against the porcelain, leaving a trail of orange-red dots in its wake.

“Kara, if this is about Will, I really don’t—”

“Nope. Over it.” She helps herself to one of Mrs. Jordan’s lotions from a shelf on the wall and flips the cap. She sits on the edge of the tub, props her foot up on the sink, and massages white goop into her bare legs. The whole room reeks of dried roses and spiked fruit punch, and I have to breathe through my mouth to keep from gagging.

“Hear you’re training again,” she says. “For the Capriani Cup.”

“Who told—”

“You did,” she says. “Just now. Not like I couldn’t figure it out. They announce a competition, and suddenly you’re hanging out on the ice again? Not exactly coincidence.”

“No, not exactly.” A new thought ripples through my mind, its sharp edges catching behind my eyes. Kara wasn’t one of Lola’s trainees, but that doesn’t mean she wasn’t invited to compete. They probably sent the letter to everyone who’d ever set foot in the Buffalo Skate Club, Lola students or not. I can handle the other girls from my skating past. Chances are at least one of them continued skating, at least one of them will be there next month. It won’t be easy or pleasant, but I know I can hold my head high, ignore the whispers and taunts, and skate my ass off.

But not in front of Kara.

“So … you trying out, too?” I cross my arms over my chest and try for the hard stare, but inside, my stomach flip-flops.

“Parade myself in front of the judges, just so they can tell me all the ways I’m not good enough? No thanks. I’ll leave the kiss-and-cry drama to you.” Kara gives me the once-over, her eyes landing on my shoulder—the exact spot where we used to pin our matching silver good luck rabbits. The exact spot where mine is still pinned to my old skating dress.

“What I can’t figure out,” she says, “is the Wolves. Why are you helping them?”

I shrug. “It’s a good opportunity.”

“Opportunity. Right. Let me guess: Will cut you a deal? Traded a little ice time for some help with the team? Maybe a little something on the side?”

My mind flashes to Will, the feel of his body against mine in the dark room down the hall, his breath on my neck. Heat rushes to my cheeks. She doesn’t know anything about Will and me. If there even is a Will and me.

“Excuse me.” I step around her and grab the doorknob, but she’s got her foot against the door, and I can’t open it. “Kara, I really—”

“How can you go out for another event?” Her voice breaks suddenly, all the edges of her crumpling. “After everything that happened … after I left the ice … you never said anything. Ever. And you go out there again like it’s just … nothing!” Her foot slips from the door and she slumps back against the edge of the tub, tears leaking down her face.

“I know I screwed up that night.” I reach for the box of tissues on the back of the toilet and pass her one. “But you didn’t have to leave. You were amazing, too. You could’ve gone on to compete and—”

“You don’t get it.” She shreds the Kleenex in her hands, little white bits falling into her lap like snowflakes. “It wasn’t about the competition. I liked skating, yeah. But it wasn’t the same without you. We weren’t skating together, we weren’t even talking. I skipped the club meets, stopped practicing.”

“You just needed some time to—”

“It was more than that. It was like I didn’t have it in me anymore. And my parents knew it, so they gave me an ultimatum.” Kara deepens her voice to imitate her father. “‘We don’t have the money for you to screw around. So get back out there like you mean it, or start working on your—’”