After a few minutes, I scrawl one word:
TORI.
My heart thumps hard in my chest.
She’s hijacked my fucking brain.
What if I can’t concentrate on the ice? Right now all I’m thinking about is that kiss. The way her fingers found my shirt, curled into the fabric and held me tight. And I don’t do out of control.
I can’t write that shit down.
Tori made it clear. That kiss was a one-time deal. A mistake. Instant regret.
Less than nothing.
I sure as fuck am not admitting that to Dr. Sparks.
I scribble through her name, dark slashes cutting through the letters. Squinting at the paper, I can still make out the word.
I rip out the first sheet of paper and rewrite the prompt on page two:
What’s the one thing you’re most afraid will ruin your career?
Minutes tick by. I dust the eraser shavings off my joggers, stretch my arms out and think.
Finally, I put my pencil to the paper and write.
Tori.
Fuck.
Same damn answer.
I scratch her name out again and then rip that sheet of paper out too, crumpling it into a tight ball. I aim for the trashcan at the end of the island and shoot my shot.
Miss.
The paper falls to the ground.
Air fucking ball.
I tip my head back and stare up at the ceiling.
Dr. Sparks is going to analyze anything I write down on this sheet of paper. She’ll read what’s there—and what’s not.
I scribble another word:ANGER.
Then I come up with a reasonable story. Something that makes sense.
I detail my anger issues all the way back to grade school. Throw in sibling rivalry just for fun. Talk about how my dad was a professional hockey player and pushed us hard on the ice. How I’m the easygoing brother no one takes seriously. How good it feels to solve problems with my hands, my body.
Three paragraphs later, I’m satisfied.
I’m pretty sure Dr. Sparks will buy this bullshit.
Tossing the notebook on the coffee table, I hit the shower. Maybe I can wash this Tori obsession away.
I’m toweling off when my shattered phone screen lights up.
