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Alex stares at me as if I’ve grown a second head. “It’s not that simple.”

“So, you’ve done it?”

Alex’s lips twist into a grimace. “No. Kyle was supposed to teach me, but we never got around to it. He’s always busy with hockey, school, and…other stuff.”

I raise an eyebrow at that last part but decide not to press the issue. We have bigger problems right now, like getting Alex to the arena without totaling Kyle’s car. “Okay, well, we’ll have to figure it out as we go.”

We climb into the car, Alex in the passenger seat and me behind the wheel. I take a deep breath to calm my racing heart, and after a few tries, the engine finally roars to life.

I press my foot on the clutch and shift into what I hope is first gear. The car lurches forward, and I yelp in surprise, slamming on the brakes. We jerk to a stop, and Alex lets out a tiny squeak of fear.

“Sorry, sorry,” I mutter, face reddening already. “Let me try that again.”

I ease off the clutch and try again. The car moves an inch before sputtering and stalling like an asthmatic smoker trying to run a marathon.Oh God, we’re going to die.

This car is a metal coffin on wheels, and I’m the Grim Reaper.

I tryagain, easing my foot off the clutch withthe precision of a brain surgeon. The car bucks like an enraged bull, and I hit the brakesagain. Alex’s palms slap the dashboard, and I cringe.

“Maybeweshould call an Uber,” he suggests, his voice shaking. “And a tow truck. And an ambulance—to be safe.”

“I can do this,” I insist, even as doubt coils in my gut. “Just give me a minute.”

I take a deep breath, trying to channel my inner Formula One driver. I visualize myself as Lewis Hamilton, full of confidence and charm. I tell myself that I am one with the car; it is an extension of my body, and I am the master of the manual transmission. But deep down, I know I’m full of shit.

I curse under my breath when we barely move again. My forehead beads with sweat, and my armpits smell riper than an apple that’s been sitting out in the sun too long.

This is a nightmare. A horrible, humiliating nightmare.

“So…did you see the Thanksgiving post from the Ice Queen?” His voice is full of fake cheer, and it momentarily distracts me from my impending automotive doom.

“Uh, no. What did she say?”

“That she might be moving on from writing about Gerard. Apparently, he threatened to pull his consent for her to write about him.”

“What?! Why would he do that?”

“Because she was putting you on the map, and it was clear you weren’t happy about it.”

“Wow. Gerard never told me.”

“He probably didn’t want to worry you.” Alex shrugs. “So, now she’s thinking about focusing on someone new.”

I frown, intrigued despite myself. “Who do you think it’ll be?”

Alex taps his chin thoughtfully. “My money’s on Drew. He’s got that whole chauvinistic horndog thing going on. Plus, have you seen his jawline? It could cut glass.”

“My bet’s on Oliver. He’s got that whole ‘boy next door with a secret kinky side’ vibe.”

Alex considers this, nodding slowly. “Ooh, good point. Oliver does have that Britney Spears, ‘not that innocent’ thing.”

I choke on a laugh. “Do you think she’d ever write about Kyle?”

Alex’s expression turns contemplative, and he stares out the window. Campus buildings crawl by at a snail’s pace as I struggle to get Kyle’s demonic car into second gear. “No, I don’t think the Ice Queen would ever write about Kyle. He’s not her type.”

I glance over at him, surprised by the hint of melancholy in his voice. “What do you mean? Kyle’s a hockey stud. He’s got that whole brooding, intense thing going on. The Ice Queen’s readers would eat that shit up.”

Alex shakes his head. “Kyle’s not interested in being anyone’s muse. He’s too focused on hockey and his classes to care about some silly blog.”