four
. . .
My heart doescomplicated things that have nothing to do with triple lutzes and everything to do with dark eyes and dangerous smiles.
Three weeks until my qualifier. Three weeks to stay focused.
Three weeks to figure out why sharing ice with Finn Travers feels like the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
“Ivy!” My mother’s voice has the unique capability to kill any and all daydreams. “What is going on with you today?”
I come to a stop out on the ice, not even really sure where in my routine I should be. “I’ve been doing early mornings this week.” I use every ounce of my willpower not to reach up to brush my hair back. Mom hates that nervous tic, and my hair is slicked back anyway. “I’m just a little tired.”
“Well, if the early mornings aren’t helping, they’re useless.” My mother’s dark hair sways gently as she walks over the ice toward me. “Now, we won’t be able to practice this weekend, because the hockey team is playing, but I want a marathon session on Sunday.”
Her dark eyes and demanding tone leave no room for negotiation. I won’t argue anyway, and I simply nod.
“Do you think it’s worth running again?” Mom asks, looking down at me. “Or are you…too tired?”
I don’t like the way it seems like she wants to ask me something else, and I panic for a moment that she somehow knows about me and Finn. My mother doesn’t have a romantic bone in her body, and while she’s never forbidden me from dating, it’s simply implied that having a boyfriend isn’t a wise decision.
But kissing Finn…mm, that’s definitely one of my better decisions ever.
“Ivy,” Mom barks, then she sighs, and that bark-sigh combo is never good. “We’re done here tonight. Go home and go to bed.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, and I immediately skate away from her before she can change her mind. My daydreaming has finally paid off, as it’s barely seven-thirty, and usually when I’m found to be not listening, Mom punishes me with extra time.
I told Finn eight-thirty, and I might have time to shower before he arrives at my house. I clear out of the ice arena faster than I ever have before, and I make the quick drive past the grocery store and past the park, then past all the downtown shops and into the more suburban areas of Briarwood.
I live in an older area, because it’s the only place where people like me can afford to buy something. My house is from the mid 1960s, and I spent the time I could’ve been training for the last Olympics remodeling it.
After all, I needed something to do after I’d failed to qualify four years ago. I couldn’t exist in my mother’s house, what with all her pent-up disappointment and frowny faces.
So I’d bought this old brick home, and I’d thrown myself into learning how to fix things myself. Now, it’s a two-bed, two-bathhouse with two-tone paint, heating and AC, beautiful flooring, and handmade curtains done by Mae.
It smells like frosting and something a little bit foul inside my house, and my eyes immediately go to my aquarium. That’s a generous term, especially since I see my fish floating near the top of the five-gallon tank sitting on my entertainment center.
“Oh, no, not you too, Desert Wind.”
I drop my equipment bag and go stand in front of my now-deceased fish. I’m really not cut out to be a pet parent, because I’m not sure when I last fed Desert Wind.
I lay him to rest and forgo a shower, choosing instead to scrub my face clean and swipe some mascara and lip gloss to give myself some dimension. I release my hair and run my hands under the faucet, then through my locks to try to get rid of the ponytail bump.
The blow dryer helps with that, and once I’m satisfied my hair is about as good as it’s going to get, I step into a pair of dark skinny jeans and a sweater the color of the season: a nice, pumpkiny orange.
Thanksgiving is only about a week and a half away, and I panic a little when I remember my training schedule is only going to accelerate and I’m going to be doing a lot of the pie-cupcakes for the holidays.
Maybe I really don’t have time for a boyfriend.
Then the doorbell rings, my heart jumps into the back of my throat, and I stride toward the front door.
Finn stands on the doorstep, looking like he’s just stepped out of theHow To Make A Woman Swoonmagazine, and I gape at him for only a moment before I lean into the doorjamb and say, “Wait a second. I thought I was going out with a hockey player tonight.”
He grins, ducks his head, and shakes it. “If I’m not a hockey player, what am I?”
“A lumberjack,” I say decisively. “I mean, look at that plaid.” He’s wearing black and white plaid to be precise, with a black pair of jeans, and a black pair of boots. “All you need is a little scruff and an axe. I mean, wow.”
“You don’t look so bad yourself.” He reaches out and touches one of my puffy sleeves. “This is a fantastic sweater.”
