Her eyes narrow. “I hate you, you know that?”
“Strong words from someone who needs me,” I say sweetly. “And trust me, the feeling’s mutual. But I’m still the best shot you’ve got. So... down you go.” I point to the ice.
Her face flushes with fury as she lets out a long, dramatic sigh. “OH MY GOSH. You’re the absolute worst!”
“And yet, here I am,” I reply cheerfully. “Still waiting.”
She squeezes her eyes shut. “We will never speak of this again. Understand? NEVER.”
“That depends... on whether you actually ask me nicely.” I smile because we both know I’ve won.
She huffs, curling her fists before dropping to her knees on the ice.
“Leo,” she begins in a strained voice. “Would you... be my partner?”
I tilt my head and tap my chin. “Hmm. Not bad. But you could throw in a little more enthusiasm.” I cross my arms, relishing the discomfort on her face. I wish I could take a picture of it. It would bring me so much joy to pin her picture to the wall and shoot darts at it.
She bites her lip, looking like she’d rather swallow a bucket of nails than agree to this. Apparently, the secret to irritating her isn’t annoying her—it’s making her be nice to me. Who knew revenge could be this sweet?
Her fake smile turns borderline terrifying, and for a second I think she just might strangle me. “Leo. Would you please—pretty please with a cherry on top—Be. My. Partner?”
I pause, drawing this out for as long as possible. “I guess that’ll do,” I finally say. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
She scoffs as she gets to her feet.
Already this plan is better than the original. If being ridiculously sweet flusters her more than fighting, then I’m all in. Forget the old “thorn in her side” plan—I’m going to charm her to death. I’ll beso nice, it’ll drive her away screaming.
As she leaves, she mutters under her breath, “I hope your toe pick makes you fall on your face!”
I call after her, “I’m looking forward to working with you, too!”
FIVE
victoria
As I enter the back of the ice arena, the smell of sweat hits me, a reminder I’m in hockey territory. I peek around the corner and see Leo’s teammates are still on the ice, generally acting like they’re at war and looking like a bunch of rowdy pirates while doing it. I stealthily enter through one of the spectator exits in the back and see Leo sitting gloomily off to the side. The way his mouth twists into a scowl tells me exactly how much he hates being benched. This is pure torture for him, much like wearing control top pantyhose is for me, and my heart squeezes in sympathy. Not much, mind you, because he’s the same person who made me “beg” him to be his partner, and I’m never forgiving him for that humiliation. But I know what it’s like to want to compete and not be able to. That’s been my life ever since my skating partner got injured.
He glances my way, and I immediately duck behind the seats. I don’t want Leo to know I’m eavesdropping on him before our practice, which means I need to stay undercover until it’s time for me to actually show up for our real practice time. Nevermind the fact that I have exactly zero spy skills. After our last disastrous practice together, in which I essentially landed on top of him like a plane on a runway, I’ve become slightly (okay, obsessively) curious about Leo’s hockey career. Turns out, he’s a big deal—like, areallybig deal—and I had no idea, because I avoid all hockey news like a port-a-potty in August. Apparently, Leo got chosen as one of fifty athletes for “America’s Hottest Athlete” in last month’sStar Report,which probably made his already inflated ego the size of the Goodyear blimp.
Although I didn’t look at the photos (because seeing a shirtless Leo might make me question my sanity since I’m the one who broke things off), I did find out that he is projected to move on to the NHL in the next two years, which you’d think I’d know since my dad is his coach.
But if there’s one thing I’ve stayed away from since our breakup, it’s hockey. I’ve watched zero games, refused to google his name, and I sure as heck didn’t show up at this rink anytime close to the Crushers’ practice time. Over my dead body was I going to chance running into Leo Anderson.
Never mind the fact that when I attended the University of Michigan, where we dated for six glorious months, I was his biggest fan, wearing his jersey to every game and screaming his name like some kind of insane hockey groupie. My goal was to make him smile at least once per game—a feat I was successful at—since he pretty much wears a permanent scowl all day, every day. I even kept a secret smile tally, which I never showed him, but it had the same effect as shiny gold stars on my ego. Every time I made him smile—on or off the ice—it felt like a victory, and I added a tally to my list. It was a game I invented—keeping score of the rare moments he let his guard down. My highly classified list started with:
Saying a slightly inappropriate joke about Leo’s abs = 1 point
Making a weird face at him during the game = 1 point
