Page 18 of Revolve
I startle when Dylan brushes his thumb by the corner of my eye, and he comes away with a tear. I drop my palm from his mouth, feeling mortification seize my bones. His brows pinch, and when he glances over to where Justin’s just exited, it’s like he’s putting together a puzzle. I wait for it, pity or sympathy, but Dylan doesn’t look at me like that. He looks curious.
I nearly trip over his feet in my rush to get out. “You should leave before someone catches you,” I say.
He seems to recognize my deflection for what it is. “Can’t keep a secret, princess?”
My tightening chest isn’t deflating. “Call meprincessagain and you’ll find out.” I spin on my skates, heading straight for the bathroom as my skate guards click against the floor. It only takes a few mumbled affirmations, a breathing exercise, and the propranolol I took earlier to ward off a panic attack.
But when I finally get back outside, someone’s already skating. Onmyice.
Upon seeing the perfect landing, the swish of a spin, and another series of advanced moves, I gawk. For the entire three minutes of his routine, I can’t believe my eyes.
Dylan Donovan isfigure skating. Like, really, really well.What the hell?
“What can’t he do?” one of the stragglers from public skate says as they pass by.
“I don’t know, but I hope I’m next.” Her friends giggle on their way out of the arena.
Okay, plenty of people can get on the ice and do a few spins, but he’s not just spinning. He’s done a Lutz and an axel. That too, effortlessly. It makes me kind of sick.
Dylan Donovan is a phenomenal skater.
I’d never say that out loud. There’s no way I’d inflate his ego. He’s focused as he prepares to jump into another spin. The immediate response from my body feels dangerous and entirely unwelcome. My ears thrum with a pulse that sends my blood low in my body.Nope.
“Your footwork is sloppy,” I taunt from the sidelines when I can’t swallow the bitterness on my tongue. “And that triple looked a lot like a double.”
Okay, now I sound jealous.
You are.
When he turns, I shuffle onto the ice and slip on the gloves I finished knitting last night.
“You’re still here.” He blinks at me, staring awfully hard at my reddened eyes.
“You really think I’d give up free ice so you could taint it with your show pony tricks?” They were not just any tricks. I know that. He knows that I know that.
When he glides forward, I keep my focus on picking a song on my phone. But then Dylan comes so close, he’s towering over me. He unzips his jacket, and the slow metallic rasp splits the silence.
“Jealousy looks good on you, Sierra. But maybe you should channel some of that anger into landing a jump.” He leans in. “Or, you know, I could give you a private lesson.”
He’s still too close when he pulls off his jacket and tosses it on the boards.Hartford Whalersis written on his too-short threadbare T-shirt that clings to his chest and reveals the smooth V-shaped muscle disappearing into his track pants.
I swallow. “Don’t think I’ll benefit from lessons from a guy who still wears his high school hockey team merch. Is that where you learned to skate like that?”
He looks at me like I’ve lost a few brain cells. “Well, there’s this sport called hockey that I’ve been playing since I was a kid.”
“You were figure skating. Hockey doesn’t teach that.”
“Impressed?”
“Indifferent.”
“Jealous,” he decides with a satisfied grin.
There’s only so much patience in the world, and I don’t possess it. I glide past him, trying not to focus on the scratch of a skate that follows me.
“I competed in pairs with my sister for a few years,” he reveals. “But then I switched back to hockey.”
That makes me stop. “Why?”
