Page 15 of Icebound

“Thanks. I’m glad you thought that was astute.”

Noah nudges my shoulder. He was seeing someone earlier this semester, but he’s been more touchy with me recently, so I’m not sure if they broke up. “I’ve told Pierre I just really like jellyfish since all my sculptures look like gigantic piles of shit.”

“They’re not that bad.”

Pierre continues his lecture, and since we aren’t working with our hands anymore, I shift my focus back to the fifty tabs open on my computer screen.

Rhode Tremblay should pay me rent for all the space he’s taking up in my mind. I scan the articles.

Rhode Tremblay’s Game Day Secret: Beet Smoothies. Rhode Tremblay’s Philanthropic “Power Play” to Children’s Hockey Programs. Rhode Tremblay Caught in Scandalous Act with Olivia Vervain in Tenerife. Rhode Tremblay and Micah Cruz’s Pre-Game Ritual: Beanies & Jockstraps.

Micah Cruz?

That name rings through my memories. I squint at the screen, peering closer at the guy with a killer smile next to Rhode.

I remember that panty-melting grin from high school. Micah’s gorgeous with locks of midnight hair and amber eyes glittering like topaz. That playful twinkle never seems to dull.

He’s older now, but he was voted Most Likely to End Up in A Dancing Competition. Looks like he got his dream in the NHL and proved our Superlatives committee wrong.

Micah was always one of my favorite people in high school because he can make anyone smile, even when they’re having a bad day, and I used to have a lot of terrible days.

I slam my laptop shut.

This fake date has been looming in my mind all week, and there’s absolutely no way I can go out with Rhode Tremblay, who—based on the internet sinkhole I delved into—is not just a hockey player, he’s Nashville’s Naughtiest Bachelor.

There are a few articles that claim he’s a revered veteran, but I was scrolling through some pretty scandalous pictures of him, chugging expensive tequila from between some girl’s legs, so I have my doubts about his reputation.

I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that the same man who saved us from mutual destruction last week also tied up a woman on a yacht near the coast of Tenerife and accidentally set it on fire as she orgasmed.

He’s a little wild, but maybe that’s something all hockey goalies have in common. They do have to stand in front of a net, stopping flying pucks all day.

When class ends, I grab my messenger bag. “See you next week, Noah.”

As I stroll through campus beneath the crisp winter sky, I mentally run through a list of excuses to call off this date. I can’t admit I’m a twenty-two-year-old art student to a professional hockey player. He’d laugh in my face.

What do we even have in common? He’s thirty-three. What if he still leaves voicemails?

My last semester of senior year is about me—my goals, my dreams, my ambitions. I’m done molding myself to fit someone else’s needs. I’m leaving for Argentina in July for a three-month pottery fellowship I worked my ass off to get.

I don’t need to be distracted by older men who may as well have HEARTBREAK written on their forehead in their ex-girlfriend’s red lipstick.

I stride up the icy steps to my sister’s brownstone and shut the door. I flip on the living room TV for some background noise because I can’t stand silence, flicking through channels until Rhode’s handsome face pops up on the screen.

“How’re you feeling ahead of tonight's game, Rhode?” the interviewer’s deep voice seeps through our TV.

His lips curve into a smile on the screen, unfurling with the stiffness of a robot. “I'm feeling good. Really good. I've had some solid practice sessions with my coach, so I'm ready for tonight's game. The team’s ready.”

“Good to see you’re still confident,” the interviewer says. “Especially since there have been rumors floating around about your retirement.”

I keep my eyes on the water droplets speckling Rhode’s damp hair while spritzing the succulents lining the windowsill. He looks ready for the Cannes Film Festival in his elegant charcoal suit, but he’s wearing an olive green tie with little cacti all over the material. I bet he’s left a trail of broken hearts all over the world, and mine will not be one of them.

“Shit,” I mutter, realizing I accidentally watered the sheer-gray curtains.

My sister won’t be happy about that since she meticulously crafted every piece of furniture in her apartment. The room's got this whole chic meets jungle vibe, courtesy of my potted plants transforming the place into a rustic brick rainforest. It's the kind of home I'd dream of living in forever if it didn’t come with Gwen’s irritating presence.

“So, what’s next for you, Rhode?” the interviewer asks. “What does the road ahead, if you will, look like after the League?”

Rhode’s grin looks carved on his face. There’s no dimple like the warm smile he gave me last week.