Without my permission, a laugh bubbles up from my chest.
Me:You should be.
Me:This partnership with Spencer is one of the most important things in my life. I don’t want to screw it up. So I agree to pretend for his sake.
Me:I’ll do my best to keep my mouth shut, as requested.
Parking lot terrorist:Not going to make this easy on me, huh?
Me:Where’s the fun in that?
Parking lot terrorist:Be careful what you wish for, Red.
Wait, is heflirtingwith me?
I slam the phone down onto the bed, cutting myself off from replying to Wes.Oh, my God. Get a grip, Isla.
A few minutes later, he sends a long list of names, phone numbers, and email addresses of people who have expressed interest in skating. I decide to go for a run, then tackle outreach to potential new clients.
I will not spend another second thinking about Wes Davidson.
Chapter 8
Wes
Routinestaketime.
I’ve repeated this to myself every morning for the last week. I’m on the seventh day of pounding on Thea’s door to wake her up because she stayed up all night on her computer.
Our mornings are filled with awkward silences and her impressively snappy comments. This morning’s drama revolved around wanting to wear a piece of clothing that hadn’t been washed yet because Istupidlythought that a teenage girl knew how to do her laundry.
Thea’s summer with her friends and her hockey team was snatched from her, so I understand her anger. I’m trying to be patient, but I’m also not the person to lay blame with—that belongs entirely to her mother, who has no access to her phone to be on the receiving end of Thea’s angst. At least we have a break from each other today while Thea goes with a couple of kids from her hockey camp to the beach, and I have a beer league hockey game.
I unlock the rink doors, and my shoulders immediately relax. The blast of cold air cools my already sweating skin, thanks to the mid-nineties heat wave outside. The quiet of the rink slows my heart,pushing thoughts of the argument this morning out of my mind. Hockey was always like this for me—an escape from my responsibilities for a few hours.
That’s my plan for today—forget about Thea and my mom and Spencer and Isla and focus on hockey.
Until I hear music coming from the rink.
I rush toward the ice, worried about who’s here before eight on a Sunday. Did I forget to lock up?
The song grows louder as I approach. It has a punk vibe with strong drum beats, loud guitar riffs, and a female voice dripping with attitude as she sings about sour cherries. My fingers tap against my leg as I approach the figure gliding across the ice.
My stomach falls through the damn floor.Isla Covington.
She skates wildly across the ice, arms punching into the air, her body twisting to the beat of the music. Her strawberry-blond hair flies loose behind her, her stomach on display in a bright red cutoff top and black leggings. She moves so quickly, with a combination of attitude and grace that’s impossible to turn away from.
After our interactions this past week, I’m not the least bit surprised that her skating can pack a punch like this. I’m left wondering why the world hasn’t seen it yet.
As the song comes to its conclusion, Isla skates backward toward the corner of the rink, gearing up for a jump. Her skate digs into the ice, and she propels herself into the air, into what looks like three full spins. She lands on her right skate and then immediately jumps again, this time for one revolution, but the landing isn’t clean.
She stumbles, flailing her arms for balance, before slamming onto the ice and sliding backwards into the boards.
I’m on the ice, rushing toward her before I can think about the implications of what I’m doing and whether she’d want the help. With sneakers, I can’t move as quickly without losing my footing, but I’ve done this enough times that I’m over to her within seconds.
Isla rights herself slowly, but is still sitting on the ice when I reach her.
“Hey, hey, hey.” I drop to my knees in front of her. “Are you hurt?”
