Page 118 of Wicked Serve

I force myself to take a deep breath. I don’t feel angry now, but in the dream, I couldn’t escape the cocktail of rage and hopelessness. I drank it down like poison, and instead of killing me, it went for Isabelle. When I woke up and saw her safe and whole... I don’t know if I’d ever been so glad to be dreaming.

“Come on,” Cooper says, as if he can tell I’m thinking too hard. “Let’s keep going.”

Instead of winding up with my core and smacking the last puck into the net, I skate towards him slowly, flicking it from side to side.

He lunges when I act like I’m about to shoot, but at the last moment, I fake him out, hooking the puck around him neatly.

He scrambles to his feet, wiping the ice off his knees, and grins. “Prick.”

I rotate my stick in my hands as I roll my shoulders. I snag a puck from the net, skating backwards in the direction of the neutral zone.

“Come and steal it!” I call as Cooper chases me.

“Is this a preview of next season?” Isabelle says, raising her voice so I hear it across the rink.

“Yeah,” Penny says. “Show us what it’s going to be like.”

Cooper raises his eyebrows as he skates around me. I catch the silent question—no, I haven’t told Isabelle about my agreement with Grandfather yet—but ignore it. I’ll tell her soon; I just haven’t found the right time and place.

We loop around the ice, skating as hard and fast as we dare without pads. He manages to snag the puck, only for me to check it away from him. He pushes harder, forcing me to pull out all of my best moves to keep possession.

I can’t help but smile when he backs me against the boards, pressuring me into a turnover. I haven’t played the sport like this in years. It makes me think of evenings at an outdoor rink my father liked; he’d challenge me to race him, to steal the puck from him, to play a little dirty to prevent him from scoring. Sometimes it would be in the middle of the night, like this. He’d carry me out of bed and put me in the car before I was fully awake. Mom hated when he did it on school nights.

Moments like that, tucked away in my mind, make the nightmares even harder. They make it impossible to block his number, even though I know that Isabelle hates every time I pick up the phone. He hasn’t tried outright to lure me to his team again—apparently, he’s given that task to other people—but he’s reminisced with me. Asked how I’m doing. I know he’s just playing nice so he can bring down the hammer later, but I’m falling for it anyway. I even mentioned Isabelle to him the other day.

Part of me can’t believe that he’d actually set foot in America again. But who knows?

When Cooper and I are finally out of breath, we skate to the bench. I hang over the edge, smiling when Isabelle kisses me. She grabbed one of my sweaters on the way out the door; the dark blue cable-knit looks adorable on her.

“Want to skate?” Penny asks as she laces her skates. “I brought my extra pair; they should fit okay.”

“No, no,” Isabelle says with a groan, flopping the sleeves over her hands. “You know I’m terrible at it.”

“I didn’t know that,” I say. “And I highly doubt it.”

“I don’t know, man,” Cooper says. “The athleticism doesn’t extend to the rink.”

She makes a face at her brother. “Dad is the same way.”

“Yes,” he says with a snort. “At least he’s terrible at something.”

Penny reaches into her bag and pulls out a pair of white skates and rolled-up socks. “It’ll be fun.”

“I won’t let you fall,” I add.

“You have to promise,” she says as she takes them, staring like they’re an alien artifact.

“Promise,” I say, biting back my smile as I rest my hand on my heart. “Let me lace you up.”

I can’t believe I didn’t know this about her sooner. I could’ve been helping her this whole time. Maybe if she gets confident enough, we can go to one of the open skates at the rink Penny works at. After I get the skates laced tightly, I help her onto the ice. Cooper and Penny are skating together in the middle of the rink already, but I don’t take her there. We skate around the edge—she’s shaky, but stable enough that she doesn’t fall—with our hands clasped together.

“There, you’re getting the hang of it,” I say, squeezing her palm. “Your body remembers.”

She glances up, bottom lip caught between her teeth. “How are you doing?”

“Fine. Better,” I add, at her look.

“You scared me.”

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