Page 17

I ’ve become too attached, too quickly. If this is what having friends and caring about people feels like, I don’t want it.

It was just a kiss.

There is no reason for me to feel ashamed.

None at all.

But I do. I always do.

Because I’m the person who dashes over a pedestrian crossing for fear of taking too much of a stranger’s time. The one who apologizes when you bump your shopping cart into my ankle, slice it open, causing it to bleed, for asking a perfectly reasonable question at an allotted time, for the faucet taking too long to fill my water bottle, for taking up space in a public place, for … for existing.

Like, right now, I itch to beg for forgiveness from a hot boy that doesn’t want me, because a cute boy that maybe does … that I have no interest in, kissed me.

If I touch a finger to my lips, I feel his; warm and thin and wrong. But I also feel the scar Noah’s glare of betrayal marked me with.

I’m tired.

It may only be eight pm, but I’m in bed, snuggling beneath my blankets with an angsty CE Ricci book, some Mountain Dew, a six pack (one remaining) of jelly donuts and a belly ache. My phone has been ringing nonstop for the last thirty minutes, and I’ve let it ring out each time because it’s going to be Noah or Claire. I know it, and I can’t talk to either of them. I’ll say sorry, and take the blame, and try so very hard to make things right when I’ve done nothing to make them wrong.

I don’t even know if that makes sense.

I need more sugar.

Grape Jelly oozes down my chin, as I take another bite, turn another page and narrow my eyes. My phone rings again, and once again I consider switching the damn thing off. But since I threw it to the other side of the room earlier, doing that would mean leaving my cocoon of shame, and I’m not quite ready to do that. Maybe in a day or two. But certainly not now.

I simply have too much wallowing to do.

Although, maybe the sugar is kicking in. My legs feel twitchy and before I can think the better of it I’m up and digging through the pile of clothes I think my phone is buried beneath.

“Marty?” I say it out loud and again when I hit that little green button.

“Kiddo. It’s SKISCO night. You were supposed to be here at seven. It’s not like you to be late. You okay?”

Shit. “I’m so sorry, Marty. And I’m fine, I promise.” Switching to speaker, I toss the phone again, slip out of the world’s ugliest, hence comfiest pajamas and into my Green Line Ice tee and black leggings. “I just got my weeks mixed up, but I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” He’s still talking as I slip on my shoes, toss my phone into my bag, grab my keys and run to the door.

The way Ryan cupped my face in his hand, pressed his smiling lips to mine, plays on my mind the whole way there. As does the horror on Noah’s face … and the judgment on Claire’s. From our first introduction she’s made it perfectly clear Noah is off limits, but Ryan kissing me didn’t seem to please her either.

People are hard.

Brakes grind and squeal as the train comes to a halt. Barely waiting for the doors to slide open, I squeeze through, hit the pavement and run-down the dark, red oak-lined avenue, skidding on wet leaves I can’t see, weaving through the full parking.

“I’m here, I’m here!” Stumbling in through the doors, children’s squeals and laughter hits my ears and so does music made before I was born. That’s not a problem for me. I love an 80’s banger as much as the next person, but not many ten-year-old kids get down to The Bangles.

Through the artificial fog and pink and purple flashing strobe lights, I spot Margaret from work. She brings her son here every month, but luckily she, like all the other parents sitting in the stands, has her head buried into a phone screen and doesn’t notice me. Marty and his fluorescent teeth do though, and he waves, then clutches his hand over his chest and mouths thank the lord, as I remove my coat and hit the makeshift DJ booth. Keeping on theme, it’s nothing fancy … in fact it’s so far past fancy it’s shit. I disconnect the frayed cord from the iPad with the cracked screen and switch it to my phone. Hopefully things in the music world haven’t shifted too much in a week and the kids don’t notice I’m playing the same tracks as last month. Thursday nights are normally spent scouring TikTok for the latest viral hits and compiling a fresh playlist, but last night I was at Claire’s tearing Bachelor contestants apart till ten, and after she dropped me home, I was too busy sulking that Noah hadn’t tried to talk to me to put in the effort.

I hadn’t talked to him, either, but that’s hardly the point.

When Tate McCrae kicks in, the kids go crazy, and I breathe a little easier. As much as I don’t do people, being here, watching the smiling, flushed faces awkwardly approach a cute boy or girl and ask them to skate, has been the only dating scene I’ve been around for some time, and brings back memories both good and bad.

This disco was my social life as a kid and was my only form of skating after my lessons stopped. I loved to dance and glide and lose myself in the music and always wore the brightest, pinkest dress Gran could afford to buy me. It’s also where Danny, the first boy to hold my hand, to kiss me, to take me to bed, made his move. We were together for six months during my final year at school and ended when I heard him bragging about taking my virginity while ridiculing me. “She even tic’s when she comes.”

Yeah. Like he’d played any part in making that happen.

I blink Danny limp-dick away and queue up Katie Perry’s Dark Horse, grinning to see the little hands fly into the air when the bass drops. It may be a few years older than most of these kids, but they all know, and love it. For the next hour, there’s no Noah checking out hot Quinn. No judgey Claire. No cruel Professor Carole. I focus on making this night these kid’s best night. I lose myself in their fun, the swirling lights and thumping beats.

When the last song plays, and the last body clears the ice, thoughts of Ryan and Noah push their way to the front of my brain, but helping Marty clean up provides another distraction. Holding my breath as much as I can, I clean and disinfect the hire skates while Marty zips around on the Olympia. I clean the bathrooms and restock the cafeteria so it’s ready to go for tomorrow’s Junior hockey. Once that’s all done, I head back to my booth to grab my things. I don’t have the energy to skate. My heart’s just not in it.

“Hey Kiddo,” Marty calls from behind three trash bags as he heads out back to the dumpster. “You not taking a spin before you head home? I know you’ve got those skates on you.”

“How do you know?”

“Just do.” He shrugs then wanders through the doors, I stare longingly at the still illuminated pink and purple ice.

“Maybe just one lap.”

One turns to two, to three before I know it, Marty’s handing me the keys, asking me to lock up and leaving me alone to float on the ice like a delusional one blade in my best attempt at a biellmann spin.

“Do you like him, Lotte? Did you want him to kiss you?” Startled, I drop my foot, landing awkwardly on my ankle that twists and bends in ways it shouldn’t, sending me sideways onto the ice. “Shit, Lotte.” I’m shaken and dazed, listening to panting breathing and blades hurriedly cutting through ice, before warm hands are scooping me up and holding me against an even warmer body. “Are you okay? Is anything broken? I didn’t mean too—”

“What the hell, Noah? Put me down, I’m fine.”

I’m not fine. My ankle and knees and palms really hurt. If I was here alone, I would be splayed across the ice bawling. But there’s also a large … a massive part of me that doesn’t want Noah to put me down. That wants to curl up and purr like a kitten in these big, burly arms and rest my head against this solid broad chest, and breathe him in again and again, but I will be damned if I let my inner kitty win.

“You’re not fine,” he huffs, “You fell. You’re hurt.”

“Stop treating me like a baby. You fall over fifty times a game, and I don’t see anyone carrying you off the ice.”

“Yeah, well I have padding and helmets and am too big to carry … stop squirming.”

I wriggle more and sink the heel of my blade into Noah’s thigh. “Never!”

“Fine.” For a second, I panic, thinking he may actually drop me. But no. Noah grunts, grips me tighter, tosses me over his shoulder, and brings his hand down on my ass. “Stop being a brat, or I’ll smack it again.”

Noah Petterson’s giant hand print has marked my skin.

Noah Petterson, who for some reason smells like caramel and vanilla, just spanked me.

Spanked me.

This should be offensive. I should kick and scream and argue and demand he put me down, but I can’t because it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever felt. I’m pretty sure I just had a mini, or not so mini orgasm, and fuck me I want another one. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, really? I think you’re greatly underestimating how much I’ve thought about getting my hands on this body.” With that, he stomps off the ice, releases his grip and slides me down over his body. His firm body. Yup, there’s definite firm-age in the groin area, and he wants me to feel it, because when our hips align he slows my descent and presses it into me. His big hard cock is against my thigh, and I want it. I want to touch it and stroke it and taste it. When I’m on my feet I take him in. He’s wearing a Henley that clings to his pecs and biceps and has ridden up to expose perfectly chiseled abs, and a light dusting of hair that disappears into jeans that hang low on his hips. God he’s delicious.

In what’s really just an excuse to touch him again, I lay my palms on his stomach and try to push him away. “Is that how you talk to all your friends ?”

“Nope.” He smirks, and grabs me by the hip, digging his fingers into my flesh. “Just the ones I can’t stop thinking about.”

I begin to tic, a rarity around Noah but this situation is quite rare in itself. I’m twisted into a non-existent love triangle, and I love it as much as I hate it. “You shouldn’t say that to me. It’s not—”

“Why shouldn’t I? Because of Donnelly? Do you like him, Lotte? Have you been looking at him the way you look at me?”

“Oh, like you can talk. What about how you drool over Quinn?”

“Are you jealous?” He scoffs, looking far too pleased.

“No! But also, Pfft. Like you can talk.”

“Yes, I can. Because unlike you, Lotte. I’m happy to answer the question. I think Brady has a bit of a thing for Quinn, not me. And since she is the coach’s daughter, and I am the captain, though I may not be after tonight.” The last part is mumbled under his breath. “I’m not trying to make a move on Quinn. I’m trying to stop Brady from making one.”

There’s a lot to unpack there. Especially the captain thing. But all I can come up with is, “Oh.”

“Yes. Oh, so, now that’s clear. Tell me about Ryan. Do you like him?”

“My love life is none of your business.” I snap, while putting in the absolute minimum, effort into wriggling away. Noah’s lip twitches and his brows narrow. It’s ridiculously arousing.

“Your love life?” he repeats like I’ve spoken Cantonese. “Your love life? Right. So you do like him.”

“Ugh. No. I didn’t—”

“Good. Because he only kissed you to get to me.”

This time I wriggle for real, but only manage to turn around before he pulls me back against him. I gasp, my nipples tightening beneath my sweater as one hand shifts lower on my hips. The other splays against my stomach, while the monster he’s packing behind his zipper presses between the cheeks of my ass. “How do you know that? Captain Cocky? What, because you don’t want me, no one else can either? I’m that gross and disgusting.”

“I never said—”

“Oh, but you basically did. You and your sister outed you as a slut who’s slept with half the girls at school, but two laps of the ice holding hands with me was all it took to turn you off and shove me into the friend zone.”

“Does it feel like you turn me off, Little D?” he says as he thrusts into me. “You’re the complete opposite of turning me off.” Warm breath tickles my ear as his lips brush against them. He’s so close. He must notice my labored breathing. My goose flesh skin. Feel me pressing back against him despite myself. “You’re on, Lotte. So far on, I can’t think straight, but—”

“No, no buts.” I manage to whimper. “You don’t like me enough to find a way to be with me, so why can’t Ryan like me enough to want me?”

“Wait.” And just like that, his hands drop, he steps away. The warmth and contact I never not want to feel again is gone and I feel I may crumple without it. “Is that … Shit, you do. You … want him, Lotte,” he almost gags. “And you want him to want you, too.”

I’m not quite sure if we’re flirting or fighting, and the frustration combined with lust causes a single tear to spill from my eye. Every part of my body wants to turn and face him, yet I can’t let him see me tic or cry. “I don’t want him, Noah. But I also don’t want you to tell me who I can and can’t be with. I’m so confused.”

“I’m not trying to confuse you. I’m trying to protect you. He’s not good enough for you.”

Okay, now I’m pissed. “So, let me get this straight. For weeks you’ve told me I need to come out of my shell, but then you then try and shove me back in when guys pay me attention. I’m not allowed to go out with you, but it seems I’m not allowed to go out with anyone else, either? What do you want me to do, Noah? Sit around in my nightgown and cap? Waiting and reading by the fire like some old spinster in Jane Austen? Tell me right now what the hell I’m supposed to do.”

“Me,” he grunts so deep and low I feel its vibrations from head-to-toe as arms wrap around my waist and pull me back in. “I want you to do me.”