Page 5 of Devil on Skates

XAVIER

EVERYWHERE AROUND ME , students are buried in their textbooks and laptops, their faces tense with focus, which isn’t unusual for the library.

I should be one of them. My paper is open in front of me, the blinking cursor on the empty page basically mocking me, and I need to make it submission-ready ASAP.

But I just stare at it, completely checked out. My head is still stuck on one thought.

Irina blocked me.

It still stings, which is kind of pathetic. I’ve replayed that night more times than I want to admit, trying to figure out if anything went wrong. Did I misread her? No way. The connection was real. Her reaction wasn’t vague or confusing. It was clear. Mutual.

Was my message too much? Maybe. It wasn’t exactly subtle, and maybe I overdid it with the likes, but she can’t be thinking that I’m some crazy stalker.

Still, the most likely explanation is Keith, the potential boyfriend. He might be the reason why she wants zero contact.

I slam my laptop shut. There’s no point in pretending I’m getting anything done. That drive I always feel—the one that keeps me at the top of my game—is already shifting gears. This isn’t just curiosity anymore.

It’s focus. Determination.

I’ve never walked away from a challenge, not on the ice and not anywhere. And this thing with Irina isn’t going away quietly just because there’s a complication.

I’ve looked up Keith a little more carefully. He checks every box. The golden boy and heir to a pro hockey dynasty and some investment empire. A student with a perfect record, groomed for greatness.

And boring as hell.

From what I can find online, he’s a human brag sheet—inspirational business quotes, gala appearances, and the same forced smile in every photo. It’s all polish and no depth.

What does Irina see in him?

I try to picture them together. Her, with that fire in her eyes, paired with a guy who probably rehearses compliments in the mirror. It doesn’t fit.

But maybe that’s not the point. Maybe it’s not about a real connection. It could be about safety, obligation, or the comfort of falling into what’s expected.

I get that because I live it.

And then there’s the next obstacle. Coach Marshall.

Trying to get with a girl who’s taken is already asking for trouble. But Coach’s daughter? That’s like lighting a match inside a fireworks factory.

Coach is tough and uncompromising. His whole coaching philosophy centers on the idea that excellence is non-negotiable. And that doesn’t stop with the game. He expects it everywhere, including academics, behavior, and image.

Being caught chasing his daughter, especially if she’s supposedly taken, is a fast track to getting benched. Or worse.

I should let it go, move on, forget Irina ever existed, and refocus on the season.

But I find myself searching her profile again. Or trying to, anyway. She blocked me, but I sidestep it using my teammate’s account. It’s not my proudest moment, but it’s Ian’s fault for not hiding his password better.

I can’t help it. Irina is in my head, and I’m not ready to let her go.

She doesn’t post much, but a few patterns pop up. There are multiple photos tagged at the same place—a small café near her campus. In all of them, she’s tucked away at the same corner table, sometimes alone and sometimes with friends.

Before I even realize what I’m doing, I’m creating a plan. I can get there. It’s a chance to see her, somewhat casually.

My phone buzzes with the notification reminding me about my media studies paper that’s worth thirty percent of my final grade and is due tomorrow.

I stare at it. That paper’s obviously nowhere near finished, but I’ll knock it out tonight. All-nighter, if I have to, because the thought of spending another day spiraling over Irina, without doing anything about it, makes my skin crawl.

I can live without a perfect grade on my paper, but I’m not sure I can live with another day of silence.

I shove my laptop and my notes into my backpack, and leave the library behind. I’m pushing my responsibilities aside for someone I barely know.

What the hell is happening to me?

The walk to the bus stop is full of second-guessing. This is dumb, impulsive, and dangerous in more than one way, but I keep going.

Several minutes and a transfer later, I’m stepping off the bus. The café is at the corner of a brick building. It’s got a warm, homey vibe. The chairs are mismatched, indie music is playing quietly, and local art is on the walls. Seems charming, and I can see why she likes it.

I stop just outside the door and take a better look through the window. People, mostly students, are chatting, studying, and scrolling through their phones.

She’s not there. Not yet.

Fuck. What’s my move here? Walk in and hope she shows up? What if she’s with her friends? Or worse, with Keith?

The thought makes my jaw tighten.

We haven’t met, but I know his type. I can already picture his smugness and confidence. If he walked in right now, I’m not sure if I’d shake his hand or challenge him.

I brush it off, because this isn’t the rink and it’s not about winning.

Instead of going inside, I find a spot across the street with a clear view of the entrance. I pull out my textbook and pretend to read.

Minutes tick by. The sky dims, and people trickle out. I check the time, my heart sinking a little more every time someone approaches and it’s not her.

Maybe I was wrong, and she doesn’t come here often. As I close my book, I narrow my gaze at the door.

Five more minutes.

Just five, and then I’ll admit I was being stupid and go write that damn paper.

I wait for more than that. Just as I’m about to leave, I spot her down the street.

Irina.

She’s strolling toward the café, her bag over her shoulder. She’s wearing jeans and an oversized sweater.

No makeup. No sparkle. Just her.

And she still makes my heart stop.

Even from across the street, I can see she looks tired and a little tense. She checks her phone before pushing the door open.

I don’t move, just wait, adrenaline crashing over the exhaustion. I was right. She comes here often. All of this—the waiting and the risk—wasn’t for nothing.

I could go in now. She’s alone, and Keith is nowhere in sight.

It’s the perfect setup, but I pause.

What am I really trying to do? Force a conversation? Get closure? Win something?

Actually, I just want to see her. I want to know if what I felt that night was one-sided, and I want to understand why she ran away like that and why she didn’t even try to talk to me.

I’m on the move. My hand reaches for the café door before I can stop it. Everything else fades away, because all I care about is seeing her up close again.