Page 78 of What if It's Us

“Uh huh.” She nods. “And then you ride them till they die. So, tell me, ice queen, are you in your ride or die phase now or are you just getting to know him because based on the way you were watching him practice just now like he’s the lead in your favorite movie…”

I glance toward the ice again. Ledger is laughing now, leaning on his stick, helmet off, his dark hair damp with sweat.

I bite the inside of my cheek and quietly confess, “I didn’t plan on this.”

“We know,” Layken says gently.

“It was supposed to be…efficient. Clean. No messy emotions.” I turn back toward them. “But then he started doing things like asking me to dance and saying yes to being my spermdonor and pampering me when I’m suffering through a period or helping me take my mind off this whole ordeal when I’m sad about it.” I shrug. “Or being all in when the cum cup falls to the ground and there’s jizz everywhere but where it’s supposed to be and?—”

“Uh…” Blakely tips her head, her brows pinching as she thinks about what I just said. “Girl, we’re going to unpack all that later, but continue.”

“Last night,” I say, shaking my head like the mere thought of him puts me in a lovesick daze. “Last night when all was said and done, he held me against him and never once let go. He held me like I wasn’t just a checklist. He held me like it meant something.”

Ella’s shoulders fall and a sweet smile spreads across her face. “And you like him.”

I sigh. “I think I might.”

How could I not after last night?

How could I not after all the sweet things he’s said to me?

How could I not considering the way he treats me?

“Okay, so what’s your next move?” Corrigan asks. “Talk to him about it? Or continue quietly combusting every time he walks by in a compression shirt?” She winks because we all know how good these guys look in their compression shirts with their abs for days.

I look out at the rink again and catch Ledger’s eye for a split second. He raises his chin and grins—wide, easy, like I’m the pregame warmup he looks forward to.

My stomach flips and I finally admit, “I’m combusting.”

“Tragic,” Blakely says, patting me on the back. “Let us know when you start spiraling. We’ll bring snacks.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

LEDGER

The puck slides right past my stick.

Again.

“Fuck!”

“Dude,” Magallan calls from the other end of the rink, coasting to a stop, “Are you actively tryingto sabotage practice, or is this some new therapy you learned on social media where not hitting the puck makes you a better player?”

I grunt, bending over at the waist as sweat from my hair drips down my forehead. My legs feel like wet noodles. Fucking useless wet noodles.

“Shut up,” I pant, straightening slowly. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah, and I’m dating a supermodel who owns a yacht,” Meers scoffs with a laugh. “You skated like someone replaced your knees with spaghetti.”

They felt amazing last night.

My legs were strong.

For hours on end.

What the fuck is wrong with me now?

“Seriously,” adds Blackstone, skating up beside us. “Did you forget which end of the stick is up? That puck went rightthrough you. I could’ve done better blindfolded and emotionally compromised.”

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