Page 5

FIVE

LENNON

When Friday finally rolls around, I’m dreading it. Something I never thought I’d say.

Is it possible to loathe someone you’ve met once and only spoken a handful of sentences to?

I’m fairly sure the answer to that is yes, because the last thing I want to do is willingly spend any length of time around Saint Devereaux, yet due to the joke that is currently my life, it looks like that for the foreseeable future, I have no other choice.

Turns out, there has been a mix-up with our ice time, and there is no additional time available.

Nothing.

Nada.

Zilch.

Despite nearly begging Summer for quite literally anything else. I was willing to take whatever scraps she would give me if it meant that I wouldn’t have to be around him again.

But as sympathetic as she was for the mistake on her part, she didn’t have anywhere for either of us to go.

So, my only option? Share the time slot with the devil himself or… lose it.

And I can’t let that happen.

If I don’t use the rink at school, then that means that, once again, I’m going to have to give up skating.

That feels cruel to think about when I’ve only just gotten it back.

I can’t afford private ice time at a club rink, especially because this is something I have to keep from my parents, and dumping likely a thousand dollars a month into anything is going to flag them, without a doubt.

The majority of this week was spent trying to come up with a plan, something, anything , as a solution to what I didn’t even think was going to be a problem that has turned into a much larger one in a very small span of time.

And I came up with exactly… nothing.

It looks like I’m just going to have to suck it up and deal with it. Honestly, my plan is to ignore him entirely and focus on what I came to the rink for—training.

I’ve spent too long letting the things I want take a back burner to the plans my parents have laid out for me.

They’ve dictated every aspect of my life for as long as I can remember.

What I wear, the friends I hang around with, the plans for my future, my extracurricular activities, the classes I take… even who I dated.

And now that the veil has been lifted, I see just how much control they had and how little I did.

It’s never about my hopes, my dreams, my ambitions. So getting back on the ice is the next step in reclaiming me.

I can’t even imagine what’s going to happen when I tell them that I’m going to be stepping down as the president of the Social Club, New Orleans’s highly esteemed club comparable to the Junior League.

A leadership role they’ve been preparing me for since I was practically in diapers, the perfect stepping stone and resume builder for a future New Orleans socialite…

and trophy wife. The more I think about my parents’ lives being my future, the more sick to my stomach I feel.

The truth is, I’m not sure what I even want my future to look like.

I just know that it isn’t being my father’s puppet on a string.

My phone chimes, the sound pulling me out of my thoughts. The screen is lit up, unopened notifications and the time glaring back at me.

Shit.

If I don’t leave now, then I’m going to be late, and I refuse to be late after last week.

Grabbing my skating bag off the floor, I toss it on my shoulder and head out the door to the rink.

I hate that I’m no longer looking forward to today.

That asshole Saint, better known as Satan as he should’ve been named, is tainting something that I’ve been so excited for.

I’ve been counting down the days until I could be back on the ice, and now I’ve got a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, and it is entirely his fault.

The whole walk to the rink, I give myself a pep talk, reminding myself that I’m lucky to be here, and I should be grateful that I have the time, even if I have to share it with someone who makes me want to commit a crime.

I’m going to focus on the plan that I put together to achieve my goals, and the rest is white noise.

No distractions.

When I finally get to the entrance of the rink, I take a deep, hopefully calming breath as I wrench the door open and step inside, glancing down at my watch.

I’m actually a few minutes early. And the best part?

Inside is blissfully silent.

Which means that I’ve managed to make it here before he did.

My lip curves into a grin as I make my way over to the bleachers and set my bag down, open it, and pull out my skates. It doesn’t take me long to get them on and laced tightly. I unzip the fitted jacket I wore over my top and set it next to my bag so I can stretch.

Standing, I walk to the boards and lift one leg to rest my skate on top, folding forward to make sure my hamstrings are properly stretched.

They’re always so tight, it helps me to spend extra time working them out.

The last thing I want is to get injured because I didn’t take enough time to stretch.

“Come to watch me practice?” a deep, gravelly voice sounds from somewhere behind me. “Cute. You didn’t strike me as a bunny, but then again… “

A surprised gasp escapes the back of my throat as I drop my leg and whip around so quickly that my head momentarily spins.

My gaze narrows when I see Saint leaning against the boards, wearing a cocky grin, elbow propped along the top, staring at me.

God, I hate him.

I barely know him, and yet I hate every single thing I’ve learned about him.

I cross my arms over my chest, squaring my shoulders. “Trust me, the less time I have to spend being graced by your presence, the better.”

“Ah, now, that’s rude. Not what I expected out of OU’s golden girl .”

“Well, we’ve already established that you don’t know me, so you know what they say about assuming. Makes an ass out of you… Seems like it’s a habit for you? I guess just another one of your sparkling personality traits.”

His grin widens, and it momentarily catches me off guard, disarming the confidence I’ve been clinging to. I swallow hard, ignoring the flutter in my stomach.

The OU hockey hoodie he’s wearing is old, the letters on the front faded and peeling, as if he’s washed it a thousand times. It stretches across his chest, the worn material curved around the muscles of his biceps.

Much like last time, he’s wearing a pair of loose sweatpants, his hockey bag resting casually on his shoulders. But today, his hair isn’t wet; it’s floppy and falling into his eyes, and there’s a thick, dark shadow of a beard along his jaw, traveling down the slope of his neck.

It would probably look unkempt on someone else, but on him, it just fits the rugged, sharp-around-the-edges vibe. His sharp, intense eyes hold mine as if he’s trying to get a read on me, the same way I’m glaring back at him.

Fine. Maaaaaybe I can see why he’s got girls throwing themselves at his feet.

He’s… hot.

Completely objectively speaking.

But I’m pretty sure I’ve heard somewhere that Satan was the most attractive, charming angel there was when he fell from the heavens, so this checks.

“Reputation is important,” he replies smugly. “You’d know, right? Ms. Perfect, 4.0, valedictorian, Social Club socialite. I’m in the presence of Orleans royalty.”

“Ah, asking around about me? That’s cute that I left such a big impression.”

For a beat, he’s quiet, and my smirk widens, splitting my face with a victorious smile.

I’m surprised when he says, “Yeah, let’s go with that.”

My brow lifts. “Whatever. Look, there’s no other ice time.

We either share it, or we lose it, so as badly as I don’t want to have to be around you for any length of time, there’s no other choice.

I’m not giving up my time, and I’m sure you aren’t either, so we suck it up and deal with it.

Just like last week”—I wave my hand toward the red line in the middle of the ice—“you stay on your side, and I’ll stay on mine. Got it?”