Page 58 of Rinkmates

“See? That’s what I mean. You’re different too,” I say, shifting slightly closer. “In a good way too.”

“Glad to hear it,” he murmurs.

We watch the next episode, and our conversation starts to slur. Before I know it, my eyelids grow heavy, and the last thing I remember is Riley’s body beside me as I drift off.

When I wakeup it’s early in the morning, the room is dark except for the soft glow from the TV screen. My body feels unusually warm, and I notice a musky scent—sandalwood, maybe? No, definitely musk, and sort of fresh. And I feel a tickling against my neck—something soft yet firm. I glance down and notice a way-too-heavy arm draped across my stomach, pulling me close against his chest. It feels good. His chest.

Wait.Hischest feelsgood?

That’s when I notice we’re fucking cuddling! What? We’re a tangled mess of limbs! How did this happen?

Riley’s breathing is slow and steady, completely at ease. Mine is not. No, I think I’m hyperventilating.

I carefully disentangle myself from his embrace, moving as quietly as possible, like I’m defusing a bomb in a spy movie. One wrong move, and I’ll wake him. Green wire or red wire? I go for it, holding my breath the whole time and—I slip free and sit up, gazing at him as he sleeps.

It’s strange, I’ve never accidentally cuddled with someone before.

I study the peaceful rise and fall of his chest, his face softened in slumber, every line and curve relaxed. The way his dark hair falls across his forehead. The sound of his breathing. Cuddling with him felt nice. It shouldn’t, though.

I mentally shake myself and scurry back to my room to get ready for set, hoping he didn’t notice I craved that cuddling. I need to talk about him to Mom later; she’s the only one who will understand why I can’t let these feelings in. She knows, as wellas I do, that I need to get my life in order first. I make a mental note: No more massages. Ever.

Whatever the reason, I’m dangerously close to becoming addicted to his touch, and that’s a risk I can’t afford. I’m already struggling to keep my emotions in check—I don’t need to add heartbreak to the mix.

Seventeen

RILEY

As Mercer blows the whistle, signaling the start of the drill, I explode into action.

I dart across the ice with lightning speed, our goalie, Derek Devereaux, waits for me in front of the net as we practice for the upcoming game. With a swift flick of my wrist, I send a blistering slap shot toward the net.

The puck hurtles down the ice like a bullet fired from a cannon, leaving a trail of icy mist in its wake. Derek tracks the puck’s trajectory with laser focus, but there’s little time to react. As the puck approaches, it seems to accelerate, gaining speed with every passing millisecond. Its surface blurs, reflecting the glint of the arena lights like a shooting star streaking across the night sky. I watch Derek bracing himself, positioning his body, ready to make the save. But this shot is different, and I smile because I see it coming. It’s not just about velocity. It’s about deception. At the last moment, the puck seems to change course, veering off in an unexpected direction. It sails past Derek’s outstretched glove and—GOAL!

“Ha!” I yell, doing a little victory dance. “Lucky for you, you don’t have to play against me, huh,” I shout in his direction, meeting Derek’s enraged gaze.

He remains sprawled on the ice, frustration in every heavy breath he takes. Derek had been all talk since he joined us, boasting about his skills nonstop. Sure, he’s good, but not as great as he makes himself out to be, and it’s moments like these I relish—proving him wrong during practice.

“Keep it up, Huntington! One more!” Mercer’s booming voice echoes from the bench, urging us to keep going. He’s an old man by now, his hair white, his glasses stained, but he’s still a force to be reckoned with.

I was on the verge of gliding away to give the shot another attempt when the sound of Derek’s mocking scoff halts me in my tracks. Pausing, I pivot to face him as he rises to his feet again.

“Must be nice having everything handed to you, eh? First your spot on the Falcons, second an Olympic athlete as a girlfriend.” His snide voice cuts through my concentration like a knife. What did he say? “How much did your wealthy parents pay to get you a girlfriend like Liora James?”

I grit my teeth, staring at him while he adjusts his gloves. We had never gotten along. Not really. While my family indeed had used their connections to help me, Derek had clawed his way into the league without any assistance, and he has reminded me ever since.

I get it. I hate the fact my fucking parents paid for my career. But I will make a name for myself, without their help. It’s not just my parents who can claim my achievements. I am in control of my own destiny. At least that’s what my therapist engrained in my head a couple of days ago. They didn’t say Derek would become the best sniper in the league’s history. I will.

“Jealousy doesn’t look good on you, Devereaux,” I snap back, feeling his anger flare up.

Addressing stressors and teaching coping skills to manage stress effectively can reduce the frequency and intensity of anger episodes,my therapist’s voice rings in my head.

Coping skill number one: breathe.I take a deep, deep breath.

Skill number two: check your surroundings.I’m on the rink.

Skill number three: reframe your thoughts.This is frustrating, but I can find a way around it. His words hurt me, but it doesn’t mean they are true.

He chuckles and I take another deep breath, doing everything I can to force myself to speak past this threatening lump working up my throat. “You know what? I’m sorry, Der, let’s drop it. Please. We have to drill, let’s keep it up.”

---