Page 72 of Wicked Serve

Last night, he called me his Isabelle. Now he doesn’t say a word. Tears press at my eyes to the point of pain. If I take in a full breath, I won’t be able to hold back my sob. No answer, but it’s answer enough.

I somehow manage to open the door and escape back into the warmth of the gym.

I think I hear my name, but he doesn’t follow. Wishful thinking, like every other moment from May to now. Last night didn’t matter. None of it did.

At least I manage to find a quiet corner before the tears fall.

The shot of tequila tastes extra smooth going down. My belly’s on fire, my limbs loose. I slam the glass on the table alongside the rest of the guys—football guys, maybe lacrosse, it doesn’t matter—and throw my hands up as they cheer for me.

I smile. The whole room’s gone hazy, thanks to that fifth... no, sixth... shot. Something about the tequila makes me think of summer, but I can’t remember the specifics now. I don’t want to remember the specifics ever again. Floating, fuzzy—it’s so much better than wallowing. So much better than reliving that ice-cold expression. How Nik didn’t say a word when I laid myself bare.

I stagger backwards, nearly tripping, and someone steadies me, his hand lingering on my waist before I sidestep. Terrible Christmas music. Tons of sloshed students looking to blow off end-of-semester steam. I lived at parties like these all last year, twirling in my heels and glitter, drawing stares from every direction. Why the hell did I stop?

I drown the answer in another shot.

When I showed up at Victoria’s dorm, already dressed to party, face blotchy, she took one look at me and hauled me to the bathroom to do my makeup. No I-told-you-sos, just waterproof mascara and higher heels.

Before everything, we were going to go to tonight’s hockey game, but this is way better. This has booze, and sugar cookies, and no hockey players whatsoever. It’s free of things like volleyball, and lectures, and staring into the eyes of someone you think you knew, only to find a stranger looking back. Screw that. Screw everything but this. Frenetic energy and breathlessness and someone pulling me to the dance floor.

“Take it easy on the shots,” Victoria says in my ear, hauling me away from the football-or-lacrosse guys. “Let’s dance instead.”

I hug her, rocking us both to the weird dance remix of “Jingle Bell Rock” playing from cheap speakers.

“You smell like beer,” I say, smacking her cheek with a kiss.

“And you smell like a bottle of Patrón.”

Someone passes by with a tray of shots, and I grab two. Victoria grimaces, but handles hers while I handle mine. It’s such a cheap brand, it makes my nose smart, but I like that, too. It adds yet another log to the fire burning in me. Multicolored lights twinkle at the edges of my vision as I twirl around, commanding attention, as always.

I can burn brighter. That’s my specialty. I burn and I burn until I’m nothing, until I’m alone again.

I’m not sure how I end up on top of the table, but once I’m there, I’m dancing. I rip a garland away from the wall and drape it around myself like a feather boa as I sway my hips. Someone changes the song to an especially sultry rendition of “Santa Baby,” and I launch into a proper dance, singing along to the lyrics. I trail my hand down my throat, the front of my green sequined dress, and toss my hair over my shoulder as the crowd whoops.

If you decide it’s going somewhere, don’t hide it.

I hope that boy was worth it.

I can’t do it anymore.

I spin. The table buckles.

I hit the floor, and the strands of Christmas lights wink out like stars.

Chapter 35

Nikolai

I’m not sure how I make it to the rink. One minute I’m standing in the cold, trapped in a panic attack as I look at Isabelle’s tears, and the next I’m in the locker room for the last game before the break in the season, managing an approximation of a smile.

There were some steps in between. Resisting the impulse to smash in the window of my car. Leaving bruises on my forearms because I dug my nails in too deep. Scowling at my phone as I remembered snatches of the argument I had with Dad before Isabelle came out of her coach’s office. Breathing in the smell of her forgotten coat. Trying, and failing, to calm my rising nausea. I dragged myself out of that anxiety-ridden haze inch by painful inch, but by then, it was too late.

“You coming?” Mickey asks.

At the sound of his voice, I startle. I’ve been staring at my locker, gloves in hand, for God knows how long. I just can’t get the image of her standing there with tears in her eyes out of my mind, or stop hearing the way her voice hitched as she told me she couldn’t do this anymore. Panic robbed me of speech, of movement, and it all came crashing down.

I somehow manage to get onto the ice, and it’s only then that I realize Cooper isn’t there. I’m partnered with Evan for the opening shift. I give him a look, and he just shakes his head. “Later,” he mouths.

I glance at Coach, but he’s busy talking to one of the assistants, so instead, I ready myself for the face-off. Hockey never stops. Not for panic, not for heartbreak. Hockey is my father’s voice, as impossible to ignore as a punch.

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