Not stalking you, I swear!
Just waiting on my best friend. That’s all. Didn’t even see you hitting pucks into the net a million times.
Ugh, Maisie. Jesus.
Finally, when he’s close enough that I can see rivulets of sweat trickling down his face, he says, “What are you doing here?”
I can already feelmy cheeks burning with embarrassment. “Uh, I’m meeting Lennon. I was just early, and the door was unlocked, so I just came in and… you were skating.”
Wilder’s nostrils flare, and the dark stubble on his throat moves as he swallows, brow lifting. “How long have you been watching me?”
I drop my gaze to my feet, and even as I do, I feel the weight of his stare. There’s a quiet intensity about him today, something tumultuous, like a storm is brewing, or maybe it’s already here.
I don’t know, but I canfeelit.
My skin prickles.
“Maisie.” My head whips up. “I asked you a question.”
A shiver rolls down my spine. “A while? I’m sorry. I should’ve let you know I was here.” Now would be a great time for Lennon to show up. You know, like any freaking second now.
Wilder sighs, lifting his gloved hand to his mouth and pulling it off with his teeth, letting it fall to the ice by his skates. Then he grabs the bottom of his soaked shirt and lifts it to his face.
And I swear, my legs actuallytremble, threatening to send me to the ground.
The defined muscles of his abdomen bulge, bunching up into tight little rows as he wipes the sweat off his face, then drops it back into place.
His eyes catch mine, finding me staring at him like it’s not the last thing I’m supposed to be doing, and his eyes darken, something dangerous flickering in the depths.
“Stop looking at me like that, Maisie.”
I lift my chin, the lie easily tumbling out of me. “I’m not looking at you like anything,Coach.”
“Yeah. Alright.” He glides off the ice, flopping down onto the stands next to a pile of stuff I hadn’t noticed, and begins unlacing his skates.
I have no idea why I’m still watching him.
Okay, another lie.
Buthedoesn’t know why. That’s all that matters.
I shake my head like I’m shakinghimoff and move to the stands further down from where he’s sitting and sink down, pulling out the paperback from my bag.
I open it to the page I dog-eared last night before bed. I realize that’s a hot take and slightly blasphemous, but honestly, it’s part of the reason that I love paperbacks so much.
The smell of the old pages, the way they feel on my fingertips as I turn them. There’s nothing I love more than an old, weathered paperback. They tell their own stories of where they’ve been throughout the years. Sometimes there are names scribbled inside the front cover or an old library checkout tag tucked into the back. And then sometimes, there are annotations inside. Those are my favorite.
Despite the fact that this is one of my favorite authors, and I’ve been dying to read this one, I’m unable to focus because I know that Wilder is still here.
I force myself to keep my gaze trained on the book, but the words run together, and I’m turning the pages out of necessity because I don’t want him to know that he has that effect on me, not because I’m actually reading and retaining any of this.
A shudder moves through me, and goose bumps scatter on my arms suddenly, and I realize that I’m freaking freezing.
I was too busy watching Wilder earlier to let the cold seep in, but now that I’m sitting on the freezing metal of the stands, I’m starting to shiver.
This is what I get for not running home to change after yoga.
The cropped T-shirt and leggings with the scalloped waistband I wore are so cute, but clearly a poor choice for spending the next two hours in an ice rink.
