“Oh. Sorry,” I blurt out, trying to keep the peace even though he’s the one who skated right up on me.
I know he plays hockey—everyone knows the Slater brothers are real hard-asses on the ice, and I see him here all the time—but something about seeing him this up close and personal makes my stomach drop. He normally keeps his distance.
His alluring smell at this proximity is an unexpected addiction. Even sweaty, he smells sweet, like a perfectly salted chocolate chunk cookie—completely and utterly un-garbage-man-like. I resist the urge to suck in a breath of air and swallow by focusing on his looks instead.
He’s deadly handsome, I’ll give him that—dark hair, dark, mysterious eyes, and a jawline born of the gods—but he never fails to look like he’s swallowed a bundle of knives. Especially when he’s looking at me, a task in which he’s engaged fully right now.
First, my face, until his gaze tracks down my throat, my chest, and my hands before it snaps back up so fast it feels like I caught him doing something he wasn’t supposed to.
He melts into both angerandsomething sharper, and goose bumps scatter up my arms and neck.
His jaw clenches. His shoulders tense. For half a second, it looks like he might say something, but just before the pinnacle of tension is released, he exhales through his nose, turns abruptly, and skates away hard and quick, like he’s trying to get away from me as fast as he can.
Okay.Rude.
I mean, I don’t know what I ever did to this guy, but clearly, he’s not my biggest fan.
Whatever.My worth doesn’t hinge on the guy who collects my garbage, for Pete’s sake. Not that there’s anything wrong with blue-collar work—actually, it’s hot knowing a man is good with his hands. But Rook Slater is such a fringe part of my life, he doesn’t deserve main character headspace.
I shake it off and skate toward center ice, but my focus slips as I watch Rook reach the benches and nearly tear off his skates while his brothers move toward him. Their tone is much more jovial—one of them, Kane maybe, even tosses me a wink—as their blond and brown heads respectively glint in the fluorescent light from overhead. But when they reach him, and exchange low words I can’t hear, their faces turn serious.
It feels a lot like they’re all watching me now, but I try really hard not to notice and just skate.
I hardly know anything about the Slater brothers despite years of running in the same Concordia circles, and they definitely don’t know much about me. They can work their blue-collar jobs and play hockey on the weekends, and I’ll do my own thing too becausewho careswhat they’re saying or thinking.
Right?Right.
I think they’re a few years older than me, but to be honest, I don’t really know. They all seem the same age or close, but they don’t look alike at all, so it doesn’t make sense for them to be triplets. It’s weird. I suppose I could ask, but it never feels like the appropriate time to insert myself into potential family drama, especially given the dirty looks I already get from Rook. I have a hard time pinpointing anything that should cause so much disdain, but it doesn’t matter.
It. Doesn’t. Matter. Kylie.
Shaking my head to clear it, I skate a loop around the rink, foot over foot over foot until I’ve picked up enough speed to feel the ice-cooled air brush against my face. I do a few spins to get my footing before throwing a toe loop to get started.
I feel good, limber even, and my roommate Alyssa will be happy to hear that the stretches she’s been telling me to do are paying off.
Skating is one of my favorite things in the world. Growing up, it was my escape from the turmoil that comes with losing both of your parents at a young age. Now, it’s an escape from the stress and mundanity of everyday life. It’s my sanity in a largely insane world, and it feels good to lose myself in the power of it rather than the uneasy feelings I get from the Slater brothers.
My phone buzzes in the side pocket of my leggings, so I slide to a stop and pull it out to get a look, just in case it’s important.
Unknown: Kylie, it’s Gammy. This is my new number. I lost my phone again.
I snort. My grandma is almost eighty, and has not, no matter how many times I’ve explained, grasped the fact that losing your phone doesn’t mean you have to get a new number. You just get a new phone. I don’t bother getting into that for the five millionth time now. The number will be new again within the month, and we’ll have to do the whole dog and pony show all over again.
Me: Okay, I’ll add this to my contacts.
Gammy: Good. Also, do you have some time to get together this week? It’s really important that we talk.
This week? She’s kidding, right?
I work for an accountancy firm just outside Boston, and with returns due painfully soon, this week is pure murder, schedule-wise. I love my Gammy—she’s the one who raised me after my parents passed—but I don’t think fitting her in at this stage of tax season is even humanly possible. I barely make time for skating, and that’s practically therapy.
Me: Ah, I don’t know. This week is so, so busy, Gammy. Can it wait until after the 15th?
The 15th, as inApril 15th. Otherwise known as D Day in the tax world and a measly two and a half weeks from today.
Gammy: No. It can’t.
I guffaw, but when I look up from my phone, every hair on my body stands on end.
