Page 8 of Devil on Skates
IRINA
“TONIGHT WAS AMAZING ,” Keith says, swirling his cappuccino. “I’m seriously impressed.”
The café we’re at is a fancy place near Keith’s campus where students usually don’t go because everything’s ridiculously expensive. It’s exactly the type of place he loves because it’s super elegant and full of people who look like they stepped out of a finance magazine.
“Yeah, it was,” I say, trying to sound sincere, even though I’m wiped out.
The hockey game made me more tired than I expected, and it’s not from the game itself, but from watching Xavier out there while sitting next to Keith. It’s this weird mental tug-of-war I’m still trying to figure out.
I take a sip of my tea and try to collect my thoughts.
Keith is objectively pretty good-looking, with nice features, an expensive haircut, and that polished vibe that screams money and privilege.
He dresses in casual luxury that somehow never wrinkles, and he’s well-spoken.
And honestly, by most standards, I should be thrilled that he’s paying attention to me.
But sitting here with him feels like I’m stuck in a never-ending job interview.
“That captain... Gallagher, right? He’s pretty impressive,” Keith says, and my chest constricts. “He’s got real pro potential if he keeps at it. The kind of guy you flip at the deadline for a very decent return.”
Hearing Xavier talked about like some business asset is jarring. The fierce guy who pinned me against a wall is now just some player being evaluated for his market value.
“He’s talented,” I say coolly, keeping my face neutral, even though the memories of Xavier’s celebrations that seemed dedicated to me are rushing back. “My dad thinks he’s got a lot of potential too.”
“But those celebrations were a bit... theatrical.” Keith’s jaw tightens as he speaks, his tone just a shade cooler than before. “I guess professionalism comes with age.”
I bite my tongue, because Keith has no clue what’s really behind Xavier’s style. “Some players just express themselves more, or maybe his girlfriend was in the stands.”
His gaze lingers on me, and then he gives me a small nod. “True. My dad always says personality is just as important as skill for team chemistry. Too many lone wolves can mess things up.”
We switch to safer topics, like his studies and some charity event his family’s sponsoring. I chime in enough to seem interested, but my mind keeps drifting back to the rink, Xavier’s intense focus, and those charged moments.
“Everything okay?” Keith asks, catching on better than I expected.
“Just tired,” I say, because it’s an easy excuse. “Exams have been brutal.”
He bobs his head like he gets it. “What made you choose physical therapy? Seems like an unusual pick, considering how smart you are.”
It’s not a rude question exactly, but there’s an underlying vibe that physical therapy isn’t the “smart” or “influential” path. It’s the same vibe my dad gives off when he dismisses what I’m doing, and it makes me grit my teeth.
“I like helping people get back what they’ve lost,” I say. “There’s something powerful about helping someone recover after an injury or trauma.”
“Admirable,” Keith says, but I can tell he’s more puzzled than impressed. “With your brain, you could do something with more... influence. Healthcare admin, maybe. Hospital management.”
The idea that patient care is somehow less important than managing others fits perfectly with his whole hierarchy-obsessed worldview. As if titles and power are the only measures of success.
“I prefer working directly with patients,” I say, not wanting to get into a debate.
He gives the kind of calm and polite smile that people use when they’re sure they’re right and you’ll figure it out eventually. “Of course, but you always have options as your career grows.”
My frustration bubbles up because of the assumption that I’ll outgrow what really matters to me and move on to something “bigger.” It’s like talking to my dad all over again. My real wants get dismissed by guys trying to map out my life for me.
“More tea?” Keith asks, waving down the server before I can answer.
And right then, I realize that this is what dating him would be like. A lifetime of decisions made for me. My preferences will be noted but will always come second to what he thinks is best. It’s a relationship where I’m less of a partner and more like a project to manage.
I can’t build a life with someone who doesn’t get what really matters to me, can I?
“You know, I’ve been meaning to ask,” Keith says as the server refills our drinks, “would you want to come to the business gala next month? My dad always reserves a table, and I’d like you to meet some of my friends.”
Yet another carefully planned step in a path laid out by our dads. It’s not about whether I want to go, but about whether I’ll play my role.
“I’ll need to check my schedule,” I say, not ready to say yes , even though I know my dad would expect me to agree immediately.
“Of course,” Keith says smoothly. “Just let me know soon. Maybe you could wear that blue dress we saw in that shop on our way here? You’d look great in it, and it would go well with my suit.”
Ugh! As if I’d let him have a say in what I wear. It gives me chills. Being studied and sized up like some asset is weird and uncomfortable, and I suspect he’s doing exactly that. He wants me to look pretty so he can show me off to his friends. How sick is that?
“We’ll see,” I say, checking the time. “It’s getting late. I should probably head out.”
“Of course.” Keith is already waving for the check. “I need to finish a paper too.”
We walk back to his campus together, since my car is parked very close.
“I enjoyed tonight,” Keith says, his voice low as if he’s sharing a secret. “You bring a fresh perspective to everything.”
The compliment should feel nice, but with Keith, it feels like a business move dressed up as intimacy. Nothing vulnerable, just safe.
“It was nice,” I say, matching his neutral tone. “Thanks for the coffee.”
He leans in like he’s going for a kiss, but I turn my cheek, so it’s just a quick brush. His mouth presses into a thin, disappointed line for a second, but then the faintest trace of a smile slides back into place.
“I’ll text you,” he says, stepping back. “Maybe dinner before my economics lecture?”
“Maybe,” I say, not committing. “Good night.”
I walk away, feeling his eyes on me until I’m around the corner. Then I let my shoulders drop, getting rid of the perfect-woman-for-Keith-Costello act until next time.
It’s dark, so I pick up my pace, eager to get to my car.
As I pass a shadowy spot between buildings, a strange feeling crawls up my spine. I’m sure someone’s watching me, so I look around.
Someone’s there. A figure standing too still to be random.
My heart races. I speed up, suddenly uneasy in this empty part of the campus. I glance back, but he’s gone.
Relief floods me. Was there really someone in the shadows or is it just my imagination playing tricks on me after a tense night?
I glance over my shoulder again... and walk right into something warm and solid.
Strong hands grab my upper arms, steadying me before I can stumble back. I don’t need to look up to know who it is. His heat, his familiar scent, and the electricity where his hands touch my arms... My body knows before my eyes confirm it.
“Careful,” Xavier says, his voice low and filled with amusement.
I step back, breaking contact, but the warmth lingers. “Were you following me?”
In the dim light, his smile seems twisted. “Why would I do that? This is my campus.” His voice lowers. “You just ran into me because you weren’t watching where you were going.” He tilts his head, his eyes intense. “Maybe it’s fate.”
We just stand there, staring at each other, neither of us moving.
He steps closer, closing the gap I made, his lips brushing my ear.
“We could go to my dorm right now. I could remind you exactly what happened that night... Every touch, every sound you made, every kiss...” His voice is barely a whisper.
“Or we could stay here in the shadows where anyone could see us, including your boyfriend .” He spits the word out like it’s the foulest thing he’s ever tasted.
A shiver runs through me, but it’s not from fear. For a moment, I’m tempted to forget everything, follow my desire, and choose passion over duty. As my gaze falls to Xavier’s lips, my body remembers that night all too well, especially because of how alive I felt and how every moment seemed mine.
His confident smile almost pulls me in, overwhelming my senses. But I press my hands against his chest and push him back.
“I have a boyfriend,” I say. “Good night, Xavier.”
I slip past him, forcing myself not to run, even though I want to escape both him and my own feelings. My heart pounds in my chest, my breath quickening, and my skin feels electrified as if it’s waiting for a touch that won’t come.
This has to stop. I can’t keep reacting like this and let him affect me. I have responsibilities, and I can’t just drop everything for a guy who has a reputation as a heartbreaker.
But as I reach my car, Xavier’s presence lingers like a ghost touch on my skin. I hate how much he messes with me and throws me off my balance. And I hate knowing that no matter how hard I try, I’ll be replaying what just happened all night instead of sleeping.
I need to get him out of my head, but I have no clue how to do that.