Page 12 of Revolve
“I’ve left quite the legacy on Greek row,” I joke. I mean, it’s the truth. No one shows up to a Dalton party without asking if I’m going to be there. Hell, half the time, I am the party. But his words still sting way more than I’d ever let him see. I can’t bring myself to apologize when everything I’ve done at Dalton was going to amount to this anyway. It was only a matter of time.
“Believe it or not, there are people who want you to succeed, Dylan.”
I scoff. “Right. Like my dad, who will be over the moon that I can’t play hockey and finally do something worthwhile like he’s always wanted. The same guy who’s threatened to cut me off despite all the shit he’s put us through,” I say bitterly. “This is the only thing I had, and I fucked it up just like he said I would. That’s all I’ll ever be good for—fucking up a good thing.”
Kilner puts a hand on my shoulder. “It doesn’t have to be that way. You can forge your own path, as long as you do it with a little self-respect.”
I drop my face in my hands. “Did you read that off a motivational bumper sticker today?” I mutter.
“Read it in some ‘be a better coach’ garbage. Did it work?”
I finally look at him. “Coach, the sports director won’t like me when my file drops onto his desk. You know my record on the ice, it’s not exactly that of a saint. As much as everyone wants me to stop partying, it’s the only thing making life bearable.”
“Because you haven’t tried anything else.” He sighs. “I’ll speak to the dean.”
My head rears. I don’t get why he still wants to help me.
“But.” He stands to descend the bleachers. “You have to clean up your act. Join a debate club or a knitting club for all I care. Just something to show them that this isn’t all you are.”
What if it is.
When he’s gone, I’m left staring at the empty ice. My phone buzzes in my pocket, like it has the entire time I’ve been here. Thirty notifications light up my screen, all about the same topic I’ve been trying to avoid.
Aiden:What the fuck am I hearing about you failing your drug test? Call me.
Sampson:Fucking hell, you got caught? We can’t afford to lose our best left winger, man.
Kian:I might’ve let it slip that you failed your drug test. I DIDN’T MEAN TO.
I stop reading after that because none of them are getting an answer. Except for Kian, whose ass I’m going to kick for blabbing to everyone about this. I’m about to go do just that when music fills the arena and the sound of blades hitting the ice steals my attention.
SIX
SIERRA
DRUGS ARE GREAT.Well, prescription drugs are. It’s Wednesday afternoon, which means the rink is blissfully free of the peewees and hockey practice. Lidia’s out trying to find me a partner, so I’m practicing on my own. After all the dreams I shattered last year—Coach’s, mine, everyone’s—I need to be ready.
Though I’ve popped the same jumps six times. My Salchow is even worse. I feel off axis. I slam down, scraping the ice. Then I try again, and again, and ag—
“You’re doing it wrong.” A voice echoes somewhere behind me.
I freeze. I hate that I recognize that voice—deep, rumbly, and cocky as hell. I glance over my shoulder, and yup, it’s the jock from the party. He’s leaning on the boards, forearms braced, his amber brown gaze locked on me.
I turn back.No distractions. Especially not him. With a deep exhale, I launch into something I’ve always been good at—a triple toe loop. But a sharp tutting sound cuts through the air of my jump and throws me off-balance. My landing is graceless, and with that thread pulled loose, a fire brews under my skin. I glide to where he leansforward, coming face-to-face, the rink gate the only thing between us. He’s still so much taller than me even when I’m in skates, but I refuse to let his height diminish my confidence.
“Shouldn’t you be tapping a keg somewhere?” I ask.
“Just giving you some friendly advice, princess.”
“I think that would require us to be friends. Besides, I don’t take skating advice from hockey players,” I say. “Or frat boys who spend their nights with their chest covered in paint.”
“Seems to me like you had a great timestaringat my paint-covered chest.” He leans closer with an infuriating smirk. “You can look, but you’re going to have to be a little nicer if you want to touch.”
“Why? Am I too much to handle? Never had a girl that could put a skate to your throat?”
His dimple appears. A fucking dimple. “Never, but I think I’d enjoy anything you’d do to me.”
When his gaze crawls over me, the desperation to know what he’s thinking almost kicks in. He’s like a roller coaster you know you shouldn’t get on, but you do it anyway.
