Page 88
“Like you still care,” she whispers.
“But I do,” I say before I can stop myself. I duck my head so she’s forced to look at me. “What about you? You still care. True or not true?”
That question, one we’ve been asking each other our whole lives. Sometimes, it was fun. Teasing. Sometimes frustrating. It sounds like a plea now.
She worries her bottom lip, inspecting the closet, hesitating. One, two, three, four…
The door swings open, and light floods in, making me squint. My heart leaps into my throat, beating violently, making my head spin.
Isla storms past me and out the door. People whoop and applaud, but the noise stops short as she rushes out of the room. As I step out, her roommate is clambering up and running after her. I stand still, my muscles aching. Every pair of eyes is on me, full of curiosity and scrutiny. They’re all probably wondering what the hell happened between us in that enclosed space.
The truth is? I don’t know.
Without a word, I storm toward the door. I need to think.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
what kind of reputation?
ISLA
Nineteen years old
My mug of coffee warms my hands as I stare at the wall of the kitchenette. I’ve been back from practice for about an hour. All morning, my mood has been all over the place.
Seven minutes in heaven. What a joke. More like seven minutes of being forced to remember everything I’ve spent years trying to forget.
Being stuck in that tiny closet with him didn’t feel like torture because I hate him. It felt like torture because I don’t. Because even after the hurt, the silence between us, even after I left and he blocked me, even after the heartbreak, my heart and the butterflies in my stomach still instantly react to him, long before my brain has a chance to scream Don’t.
I thought I’d prepared myself for this. For seeing him. For acting like we’re strangers. For pretending I don’t care. But the truth is…I never stopped caring.
That’s why I hesitated to answer when he asked me if I still care. I’m not sure it’s safe for me to tell him the truth.
Because the way he looked at me in that closet? Angry and confused but still somehow mine? It made a mess of my brain. My heart was pounding so hard when we were standing toe-to-toe, it felt like it would hammer a hole in my chest.
There’s so much unsaid between us, so much to unpack. Maybe that’s why I feel like a ticking time bomb every time I see him.
But I’m not sixteen anymore. I won’t crumble because of him. I won’t fall silent. These days, I understand it’s important to talk about the things that worry me, no matter the consequences. I won’t let him or anyone else dictate the narrative for me.
My years on the competitive circuit have taught me how to handle pressure, critics, failure, and bruised pride. If I hadn’t mastered that skill set, I would’ve been eaten by vultures by now.
No one is going to cater to my feelings. No one is going to be understanding or gentle with me if I’m not meeting the goals I set for myself. No one is going to pat my back and say, “You’ve got this, just try one more time” after I fail time and time again.
I learned it all the hard way. Learned it at the cost of my tears. By suffering through sleepless nights, sprains, and bruises. I can handle anything.
At least, that’s what I’ve believed, though I realize now that none of the work I did taught me how to handle him.
No skin is thick enough to block out the criticism and anger of the one person who once knew every part of me.
So those seven minutes were hell for me, especially when he admitted he still cares. In that moment, the boy I once knew was standing inches away from me. My first love. The boy who broke my heart without even giving me my first kiss.
It’s a miracle I didn’t end up having a not-so-rare panic attack after I rushed out. The intensity of the effect he has on me is terrifying.
Dean witnessed my first panic attack, and he helped me breathe through it. He and Uncle Tom are the only people who know I have them, and Uncle Tom only discovered it when he found me in the middle of a full-blown one when I was seventeen.
He came to practices and competitions as often as he could, and I’ll be forever grateful to him for being at the rink that day.
I had been working on my Double Axel for several weeks, preparing for the championship in Germany, but my performance was inconsistent. My blades hit the ice at the wrong time, or maybe I was under-rotating. I was frustrated with myself, drained and defeated, feeling like a failure. Elena was understanding, but she ended practice early when she felt I’d scolded myself too much, telling me to come back when I learned how to regulate my emotions.
