Page 2

TWO

LENNON

There is absolutely nothing I hate more than being late.

And of course, of all of the times for me to be late, it’s now.

My type A personality is to blame, but after waiting months for this day to come, I don’t want to lose any precious time.

Blowing out a frustrated sigh, I hike my bag higher on my shoulder with one hand and push through the doors to the rink with my other.

Crisp, bitter air hits my cheeks, a welcome reprieve from the hot, sticky air outside. I can’t believe that it’s been a whole entire year since I’ve been to a rink. A year since I’ve felt the ice beneath my skates.

It feels like much longer. Especially when you’ve spent over half your life doing what you love, only to have it ripped away in the blink of an eye.

God, I can’t even imagine the coronary my father would have if he found out I was doing this. I can practically see the crimson shade of his face and that vein in his neck that bulges when he gets angry.

But… he’s not going to find out. I’m keeping this one secret all to myself, where it’s safe and unable to be stolen.

For the first time in my life, I’m doing something for me .

And honestly, it feels… liberating. It’s the first taste of true freedom I’ve had in longer than I can remember.

As I suck in the fresh air around me, a smile pulls at my lips despite the onslaught of nerves grouping in my stomach.

I know that it’s more than likely I’ll never skate competitively again.

That my days of competing are probably over.

It’s been a year since I’ve been on the ice, and my body is no longer in the shape that it used to be.

Not only that, but I no longer have a coach to rely on or expertly choreographed routines, and I’ve missed too much competition time.

But regardless of whether or not I’ll ever compete again, I just want to skate.

Even if it’s just for an hour twice a week.

I want to be on the ice, where I’ve always felt at peace.

An excited shiver racks my spine, my fingers tightening around the strap of my bag as I come to a halt inside the entrance of the practice rink on campus.

It’s my first time at this rink, and while it’s not as state-of-the-art as the arena where the hockey games are held, it’s more than enough for what I need.

Especially because it’s free. And I’m in absolutely no position to be picky about something that I’m getting for free, not when it finally gets me back on the ice.

When my father forced me to quit competing my freshman year at OU, he decided that he would no longer pay for my coaching or rink rental because he thought skating was a waste of time, a distraction from me focusing on my studies and from becoming the perfect trophy wife that he raised me to be.

It was never my decision to quit, and a part of me has never been able to forgive him for taking something so important away from me. He took something that was a lifeline for me, and it became yet another thing he could control me with.

Little did he know, he fueled a fire of resentment inside of me that’s only begun to burn brighter in the last few months.

I set my bag on the metal bleachers and pull out my skates, the same ones that I’ve had since high school, and quickly put them on, lacing them tight.

It feels like second nature putting them on, something I’ve done a thousand times before, only now it feels like I’m reclaiming a part of me that was stolen.

That’s what my father never understood. That figure skating was more than just a hobby for me, more than something I just did for fun.

Skating was my emotional outlet.

A way to deal with my anxiety when it felt like I was suffocating, where I felt like I could be myself, where I felt free and happy, and when he took it away, it felt like there was a fundamental piece of me that was ripped away with it.

One that I’ve been living without ever since.

Suddenly, something hits the glass in front of me, shattering my thoughts with a loud, resounding thump, and I jump, startled by the intrusion.

I’ve been so lost in my head that I didn’t even realize that I’m not alone.

The sound of grunting and the echo of blades pinging against the ice has my gaze snapping to the figure surging across the ice.

Wait… Why is there anyone else here? This is supposed to be my private ice time.

I slowly step forward until my front is flush against the boards and narrow my eyes to get a better look.

The first thing I notice is the scuffed black hockey stick in his hand.

A hockey player.

Whoever he is, he’s tall with thick, broad shoulders, hair dripping with sweat, so dark that it appears black, plastered against his face. For a moment, I’m frozen as I watch him sprint from one side of the rink to the other. It seems almost impossible for someone that large to skate that quickly.

A few seconds later, he comes to a sudden stop, slinging ice up as his chest heaves, reaching for a black water bottle that’s sitting along the top of the boards.

I watch as he squirts a stream of water into his mouth with a large gloved hand and then douses his face before slamming the bottle back down onto the edge.

He turns back to the ice, skates to the red line in the center, and starts quickly stepping over each foot in a repetitive motion. Like a drill of some sort.

I clear my throat, plaster on a bright smile, and call out, “Hi!”

But he doesn’t stop, continuing to move across the ice in rhythmic motions, stepping one foot over another.

Maybe he didn’t hear me.

“Hi!” I say again, louder this time, stepping out onto the ice in a slow glide.

There’s a slight tremble in my legs, mostly in anticipation of finally being back on the ice.

I skate closer until I’m almost at the space where he’s practicing.

“Um… Hello?” My words come out a bit louder than intended, my greeting crassly bouncing off the walls of the rink, causing my cheeks to heat when he whips around, dark eyes landing on me.

His brow arches. “Heard you the first time.”

“Okay, well, uh… hi. Sorry to interrupt, but I think maybe there’s been some type of mix-up? This is supposed to be my scheduled ice time. Private ice time that I booked months ago.”

Unhurriedly, he skates closer to where I’m standing but says nothing, just stares down at me with an annoyed expression. His brows are furrowed, lips pulled into a slight scowl. As if my stopping him from whatever he was doing was the biggest inconvenience he’s had to experience today.

Now that he’s closer, with only a few inches of ice separating us, I can make out his full features.

Without skates, he must still be well over six feet, easily towering over my short five foot two.

His tousled hair is drenched from sweat and water, the unruly strands nearly falling in his eyes as he peers down at me.

His eyes are deep brown, nearly the same shade as his hair, and appear almost black with how intensely he’s narrowing them. High cheekbones, sharp jawline with a dust of fresh facial hair.

He’s built like most hockey players, broad and powerful, only he seems more… intense.

Reaching for the hem of his black hoodie, he lifts it to wipe away the sweat trailing down his face, revealing a set of contoured abs and a small trail of hair leading into the waistband of his sweatpants.

The sleeve of his hoodie bunches just enough to reveal a splash of dark ink circling his wrist that trails up and disappears beneath the fabric.

I realize that I’m staring at this point, so I quickly drag my eyes back to meet his, slowly shifting from one foot to the other.

Get it together, Lennon. It’s not the first time I’ve been around an attractive hockey player. I’ve been at a rink nearly my entire life, and I’ve learned that most, if not all… are exactly the same.

Cocky. Arrogant. Complete womanizers.

Not to stereotype anyone, but just my personal experience.

His brow arches. “Private ice time, huh? Obviously not, since it’s mine.”

My mouth falls open slightly at his bored and dismissive tone.

Ummm, alright. That’s rude.

I blow out a small exhale and paste on a fake smile, the same one I’ve practiced for the majority of my life.

I am a Rousseau, after all, which means that I’ve perfected the art of poised and put together, even when I feel anything but.

“I think there must have been a scheduling error of some kind because this is the time I chose based on my availability.”

For a moment, silence meets what I’ve said as his gaze travels down my body in an unhurried perusal, like he’s actually only now seeing me for the first time.

When his eyes drop to the white athletic skirt and tights covering my legs, the corner of his mouth tugs up into a smirk that seems entirely condescending and patronizing without even speaking.

His gaze lifts back to mine. “I’m not giving up my ice time, princess. No matter how much your parents probably paid for you to have it.”

What?

“Excuse me?” I mutter in disbelief. “You don’t even know me.”

The dark pools of his eyes move down to my skates, where he nods. “Expensive skates? Diamond ring on your finger? Don’t have to.”

My gaze drops to my feet, then back up to meet his cocky smirk as I cross my arms over my chest.

Not that I need to explain anything about myself, but I’ve had these skates for years, since I last competed. I can’t even really be upset with him judging me when I’m guilty of doing the very same thing about him a few minutes ago. Except I had the decorum to do it internally and not to his face.

“My parents didn’t pay for anything, not that it matters. I have every right to be here just as much as anyone else does. Just as much as you do.”

The arrogant expression on his face dims slightly, and he skates even closer, closer than what would be socially acceptable, but for some reason, I stay rooted in place, unwilling to back down and give him exactly what he’s expecting.

“Still… not… leaving.” His words are low and heavy, his brow arching as he says them.

“Neither am I.” I lift my chin. “Seems like we’re sharing the ice, then, doesn’t it?”

What I should do is grab my phone and call Summer, the coordinator for the rink. She’ll probably be able to get this fixed in no time, but now I’m staying here solely on principle. Just to show this jerk that he can’t bully people into submission.

That cocky smirk returns, his gaze dropping to my lips, then languidly returning to meet mine. “Not big on sharing.”

I match his smile with a saccharine one of my own. “You should probably work on that. Better late than never.” Skating backward, I leave him on the other side of the red line and wave my hand toward the divide. “You stay on your side, and I’ll stay on mine. Easy.”

“Fine.” His tone is clipped.

Now, I’m just being petty, but he doesn’t get to have the last word. “ Perfect .”

I can practically see his eyes roll from here before he turns and skates back to the pucks on his side, then slaps one with his stick, sending it down the ice.

Turning my back to him, I skate to the other side of the rink, doing a few slow circles to get warmed up. I’m hoping that it’ll be like riding a bike, getting back into training and practicing.

Although today, I won’t be doing anything but reacquainting myself with the movements. Easing myself back into it.

I have a habit of jumping all in when it comes to anything that I’m excited about, so I have to mentally tell myself that I’m out of shape, that I haven’t been on the ice in a year and I can’t come out the gate doing the same thing I once was able to without injuring myself.

Even if I want nothing more than to show up this jerk, who is absolutely the reason for my distraction today.

It’s impossible to ignore his hulking presence as I skate, but eventually, the hour is up, and we’re both making our way toward the exit.

Before I step off the ice, I turn toward him.

He skids to a stop in front of me, purposefully slinging up a spray of ice in my direction.

“Oh my—” I yelp as it covers my front, clinging to my face, the front of my shirt, skirt, and legs. I blink up at him, disbelief momentarily stealing my words, before wiping away the melting ice from my face and flinging it.

Oh, this… dick.

“Are you freaking kidding me?”

His lips roll together as if he’s trying to stifle a laugh, and for a second, I’m worried that my restraints have snapped, and I just might take him out with the blade of my skate.

“Whoops.” Clearly, he’s not sorry, judging by the smile on his face.

If looks could kill… Well, then he might be the reason I end up on a true crime podcast.

Asshole.

I inhale a breath that’s meant to calm me but only seems to make me more annoyed when I feel the cold ice seeping through the fabric on my chest to where I can even feel the bitter bite through my sports bra.

He brushes past me off the ice, nearly checking me with his shoulder, and I whip around. “Oh, don’t worry, I’ll reach out to Summer and figure out what’s going on. Please don’t stress yourself about it. You’re a dick, you know that?”

A beat passes before he turns back to face me, amusement or something much like it dancing in his eyes. “Yeah, that’s what I’m told.”

I’m contemplating taking my skate off and chucking it at him when his eyes travel down to my chest, and his lip curves into a grin. “Might want to get out of those wet clothes. It’s cold in here.”

My eyes widen, and I glance down, realizing that my nipples are hard and pebbling beneath my top, and immediately cross my arms over my chest with a scandalized gasp.

Jesus, this just keeps getting worse and worse and worse. I’m so beyond ready to leave and hopefully, with any luck, never have to see this dick again.

I steel my jaw before asking, “What’s your name? So I can be sure to tell Summer that I’d rather choke and die than ever share the ice with you again.”

Without turning, he calls over his shoulder, “Saint. Devereaux. She’ll know exactly who I am.”

“Oh? Nice to meet you, Satan. I’m Lennon. Rousseau. Hopefully, you’ll forget it before you make it out of the building.”

Even though he’s got his back turned, I lift my middle finger to send him off.