Page 81 of Only Ever You

He rolls his eyes. “Look, man, I get it. Things were bad. But she’s not the enemy. Don’t you think it’s time to stop pretending you don’t care?”

My chest tightens painfully. “I don’t care.”

“Very convincing.”

Instead of replying, I zip up my duffel bag and hang it over my shoulder. “See you tomorrow.”

“Planning another late-night ride?”

Nodding, I head out of the locker room. Near the door, I stop at the bulletin board to make sure our practice schedule hasn’t changed. Our team meeting is also noted on the calendar, along with time for reviewing film. Her name is there, next to her practice hours.

Weekday mornings from six thirty to eight thirty, and from ten to twelve on Saturdays. She has a second time slot booked from 6 to 8 p.m. on Tuesdays and Thursdays. It’s not on this calendar, but I’m sure she has off-ice training as well after lunch most days. With the way her schedule looks, it’s no wonder she goes to bed so early.

Not that I care.

With a shake of my head, I step out into the hallway and move toward the exit. I haven’t seen her in two weeks, not since we bumped into each other in the parking lot of our dorm. The campus is big, and she’s a year behind me, since she took a year off to train for the Olympics, so it’s not difficult to avoid her. And I absolutely need to avoid her, since I clearly can’t control myself when she’s around.

Calling her “Ice Queen” was stupid, but the words left my mouth before I had a chance to think. I just blurted them out—hoping for what, exactly? Probably to mock her, to knock her down a peg. But it didn’t go the way I thought it would.

I’m still reeling from the “pretty boy” comment. I don’t understand the reason behind it, and that pisses me off.

Dammit.

As I settle into the driver’s seat and hit the ignition button, a black BMW X3 pulls into the parking lot. When it takes the spot in front of mine and the driver comes into view, my heartbeat speeds up. She hasn’t noticed me yet, so I take the opportunity to study her. Her hair is in a high ponytail, leaving her face exposed. I can’t make out her eye color from here, but I’d never forget her dark blue eyes or the way her long lashes framed them. Once upon a time, her light skin was perpetually sun-kissed. Is it still the same now? Her cheekbones have become more prominent, making her look even more like her mom.

Despite my better judgment, I zero in on her lips, and my breathing stills.

Who did she give her first kiss to? Does she have a boyfriend? Has someone else gotten to touch her, hold her, know her in ways I never have? If so, I already hate him.

I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t want to know.

But I do. God, I do.

My thoughts jumble, piling on top of one another. I grip the steering wheel until my hands ache. The first time I peeked at her social media was probably six months or so after she moved to Boston. It was summer break, and I was sitting on the roof outside my bedroom window. Every sight, every sound, every smell reminded me of her, and I caved. I didn’t unblock her, but since her Instagram profile was public, I checked her posts via web browser rather than the app.

I’ve done that more times than I’d like to admit. I’ve never commented, never interacted, but I’ve been watching her since. Her profile is usually the last thing I look at before I fall asleep.

But she almost never posts anything personal. It’s always her skating and the traveling she does for competitions. The most personal information I’ve found is through Ian’s profile. When the Walker family visited her in Boston, he’d usually post a picture or two, but other than a glimpse of her, those images gave me nothing. I don’t know anything about her life outside the rink.

She finally looks up, and when she finds me staring at her, her lips part, and she rears back in her seat like she’s trying to disappear. It’s like she can’t stand the thought of me looking at her. Even as a hot wave of frustration and maybe a little mortification washes over me, I scoff, not breaking eye contact. There’s no way I’m looking away first.

She twists her puffy lips, eyes narrowing.

“What are you going to do now, Ice Queen?” I murmur. If she could hear me, the words might sting her. Instead, the burn lands inside my own chest.

Truth is, I don’t hate her. I never did. But I’m still messed up about her. Still at a loss over how quickly everything fell apart. How everyone knew she was moving but me. How she left without saying goodbye.

And now, she’s here. Real, gorgeous, skating better than ever. Every part of me is reacting like I’m sixteen and losing her all over again.

I’m pissed.

I’m relieved.

I’m jealous out of my mind.

She’s still the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen, and that fact alone is like a punch to the gut.

No, I don’t hate her, but I don’t know how to be unaffected by her either.