Page 77 of Ice Dance Hockey

My first mistake.

Logan was pissed. I lost the privilege of his company at my apartment. He continued to punish me at practice today. I was nearly forgiven—it’s not like I get on my knees for just anyone—but then I fucked up again.

Father’s text lights up my phone, reaming me out for missing practice today. I don’t care. I couldn’t bring myself to skate onto the ice after what happened. There are too many confusing emotions swirling around me, and I need to figure this out before I hurt Logan again.

I’m washing my bloody knuckles in the sink, hoping answers will write themselves on the mirror for me. I said I’d drop off a new pair of skates for Logan, but I can’t be around him right now. I’ll only fuck up more.

Securing cotton bandages over the split skin of my knuckles will have to do for my hands, and a raincheck for tonight might have to do for Logan. Jack will have told him what he definitely figured out about me. That’ll calm Logan down enough to buy me one night.

I have to send the skates to you, beautiful scorpion. See you tomorrow at practice?

Sure, gorilla. See you at practice.

Gorilla’s good, right? I’m not sure. Sometimes he uses it fondly and other times to tell me off. He keeps me on my toes and fuck if I don’t enjoy every minute of it.

* * *

Over the next few days, I move as though I’m trapped in a sea of molasses. My brain is lost in a fog. For so many years, I’ve been the Rhett Elkington who loved Jack Leslie. After we broke up, I tried to move on unsuccessfully, until I decided I wouldn’t move on, and I would just take Jack back by force. It became my whole purpose. I have achieved money, power, and fame, but—and how fucking cliché—it’s meaningless without someone to share it with.

The only person I’d ever felt anything deep for was Jack.

Until.

No.

Love is fucking stupid.

I don’t make it to practice, either. The text I’ve been dreading from Logan shows up on my phone.

Where have you been?

My insides twist with the sharp pain of an invisible knife. He can see my schedule thanks to that stupid app, and I can’t hide from him honestly so that means I have to lie.

Haven’t been feeling well.

That might not be all the way a lie. I’m not feeling well. I’ve been arguing with my father to start, and it’s set me on edge. We don’t argue often, never this much.

But I don’tlikehow he treated Logan. I’m afraid of what I might do if I’m in the room and he does it again.

That’s not all. If that were all, I wouldn’t be such a mess.

It’s that … I think of Logan all the time. Logan, Logan, Logan—and that’s just the sound of my heart beating. I obsessively check my phone to see if he’s texted. I neurotically check the shared calendar to see if he’s updated it. I get weird anxiety over whether I should send him a text or not. I ask myself,have I already sent him too many texts today?I’ve usually sent him a few between breakfast and lunch.

I never doubt myself. I’m Rhett Elkington. I walk in and own a room. I take charge. But Logan’s got me fumbling. What has he done to me? I don’t know how to regain my balance.

As your fake boyfriend, am I required to bring you soup?

No. He can’t come here and see me in this … in this state! Gah. I run a hand through my hair.

That won’t be necessary. My PA will take care of my needs.

Right. Forgot you had an Alfred.

His name isn’t Alfred.

LOL, no. Like, from Batman. Alfred. Because you’re super rich like Bruce Wayne? Get it now?

And now I’ve made a fool out of myself. I don’t get his humor sometimes, but that is funny. Batman. Bruce Wayne. Of course. I should laugh at that.

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