I narrow my eyes. “Are you stalking me?”
Something cold flashes in his. “If I were, I’d tell you that it’s not smart for a young, pretty girl to walk around in the dark.”
I am suddenly highly uncomfortable, my mind on all the nights when I’ve skated with not a soul around other than the staff member who snores until closing time. Then I do walk from the rink in the Dome to the dorms or the parking lot—fifteen minutes or half an hour in the dark. He’s not wrong.
I pretend he’s not getting to me. “It’s Rothford. It’s not like there’s organized crime on campus.”
“No, just a ten-minute drive away in southie,” he retorts lightly, making my answer feel silly.
It’s far too close and he knows it.
I won’t tell him, but I’ll ask Jack or Olivia to wait for me from now on. Just to be safe. Maybe they can work in the stands like I did today.
“So, what’s your assessment, Trueman? You think me and my guys have a chance this weekend?”
“Not according to your track record,” I quip. And then, because I can’t help it, I press, “Why are you always losing, anyway? It’s not like you’re completely incompetent.”
That’s an understatement, and he knows it.
He tilts his head. “Why aren’t you a pro figure skater? It’s not like you’re completely incompetent.”
I open my mouth and close it.
My reasons boil down to, I don’t want to.
The pro skating circuit is competitive, bitchy, and dangerous. There are so many injuries. The cost of coaching and competitions are also far out of my budget. Basically, I might love watching and doing the sport, but I never saw it as a potential career. I need stability, a nine-to-five with dental insurance and vacation. I don’t want to push myself to manage triple axels, when I can manage a double without risking my health. I don’t want a fall to cost me my career. I’m the child of two middle class parents who still owe half their mortgage; I can’t afford dreams like skating or cosplaying for a living.
It hits me then: if they aren’t winning, it’s because they don’t want to.
“You’re lazy,” I accuse.
He shrugs, smirking. “The team’s registered, and Coach insists we compete. But all of us have our classes, professionalcommitments, other passions. Hell, I havetwomajors. We just play to stay in shape. Better than football. Less pressure, for one.”
Fuck.
“Who are you playing against on Sunday?” I ask, only it sounds like begging.
Please, please, please, make them very good. The best in the state.
“The Dragons,” he says.
The name’s not familiar, which says nothing: I haven’t paid any attention to hockey in California.
Before I can bring myself to ask, Cross tells me, “They fucking suck.”
Dammit.
I’msoscrewed.
22
LILY
The week passes far too quickly. Every day, I go to the ice rink early, and I witness the team getting more and more ruthless on the ice, faster, stronger, in sync with each other.
I skate until the rink closes every night, just to tire myself out enough to sleep. Most nights, it doesn’t work.
Every evening, I see Cross in the stands, and I ignore him.