Page 36 of Revolve
“You’re better than him,” Dylan comments.
I almost laugh. The one thing Justin has always made it a point to tell me is how much stronger and more capable he is than me. Every time we practiced, every wrong move or slipup was my fault. It made me a better skater as the years went on, but never good enough.You wouldn’t be able to do what I do, Sierra.
“I know,” I lie.
Dylan either picks up on my half-hearted response or just can’t resist hearing himself talk, because he adds, “Sure, he can toss her around, but you have more skill. Your movements aren’t just memorized, you embody them. And that’s what makes a good skater great.”
“And what would you know about that?”
“Considering you can’t take your eyes off me every time I skate, I’d say I know a whole lot.”
“I was just picturing you covered in dirt.” I cross my arms. “Andthat was a silly practice skate; you’re not nearly as good as professionals.”
“Maybe, but your choices are what, slim to … none?”
I grow defensive. “Not none. If I asked, I’m surehewould say yes in a heartbeat.” I hitch a thumb to Justin before I realize it.Did I actually say that out loud?
Dylan’s brows shoot up, and my stomach twists. “Yeah? I’ll take that dare,” he says, eyes sparking with challenge.
I bristle. “Huh?”
“Go ask him,” he says. “If you’re so confident. You know, really rub it in my face how much you don’t need me. Then I’ll happily get off your back and tell Kilner and Lidia that you’re right.”
My pulse spikes. Shit, shit,shit. “Fine,” I say.
“Fine?” He raises a brow, clearly surprised.
“Fine,” I grind out. Then I take every ounce of my self-respect and shove it deep, deep down. Each step feels like trudging through quicksand, the weight of what I’m about to do clinging to my ankles, trying to drag me back.
I drag my feet over to the edge of the rink where he’s standing. “Justin.”
He turns, and that familiar surprised yet easy smile spreads across his face.
“Ice queen,” he says. The nickname grates against my ears. For so long I let it define me. I was the angry, bitchy,coldfigure skater. That’s how I won gold at sixteen, and how we made it to the Olympics. But I’m so sick of it. I want to be someone’s warmth for once.
“As you probably know, I’m skating again.”
Justin nods, too eagerly. For a second, I glance behind me, seeking some kind of push, but the bench is empty. Dylan’s already gone. When I turn back to Justin, it all hits me like a flashback. TheI love youpressed against my lips,no matter whatbefore we started our routine,we’re fucking disqualified because of her?after I’d fallen.
Instead of pushing through the dare, I blurt out a hasty, “Never mind,” and bolt.
In the changerooms, I scroll through forums, but it’s futile. None of the available skaters have schedules that align with mine, neither would they be willing to train half as hard as I am. I have something to prove; they don’t.
I lift my gaze from my phone to my locker—the one with the picture of Scarlett and me at age four, attending our first learn-to-skate program—my smile is wide and excited. I want to be that girl again. I know that I have to suck up my pride for the next three months. Because there’s only one other person who has something to prove. And he just so happens to be a suspended hockey player.
WHEN I WALKinto the hockey house, I have half a mind to walk right back out. It’s dark out because it took going on a walk to the convenience store and buying a pack of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups to build up the courage. I never let myself indulge because my body needs to earn it. But just having the candy feels like a reward. One of Dylan’s teammates, Kian Ishida, let me in. Dark hair, dark eyes, and tattoos peeking out of his cropped T-shirt, spanning his muscled abdomen, thighs, and neck. If not for the thick unicorn headband he’s wearing, he’d be kind of intimidating.
But the reason for my sudden cold feet: Dylan Donovan standing shirtless, in only a pair of loose flannel pajama pants that hang so low on his waist, I can see that V-shaped muscle that goes down to his …nope. Worst of all, he’s wearingglasses. Black brow line framed and devastating. What kind of sick optometrist would approve of this?
Dylan leans against the archway watching TV while holding a cereal bowl in one hand and a spoon in the other. His jaw works slowly, each bite stealing my attention. The light from the living room casts a bright glow over his tan skin. He’s all hard muscles andsmooth skin. I imagine how his body would feel under my palms. Warm, hard, soft—
“You got a visitor, D,” Kian says, scattering my thoughts before he sends a stray golf ball past my feet. I blink, taking in the scene of two other guys playing mini golf in the hallway. They wave at me.
The interruption shifts Dylan’s focus. His eyes meet mine, and there’s a flicker of something in them that makes my stomach flip. Mischief, I decide.
One roommate rushes past me for the ball that he launched down the hall, leaving Dylan and me, with only the sports channel commentator’s voice for a distraction.
If he’s trying to make me uncomfortable, he’s nailing it. His gaze sweeps over me, deliberate and slow, like he’s mapping every inch of me in a way that feels oddly intimate. Though that could be the result of my mind being in the gutter last night. I’m fully covered—mom jeans, a black long-sleeve shirt, and the blue-and-white-checkered sweater I painstakingly knit over the summer—but somehow his eyes manage to burn through the layers, searing the skin beneath. It’s unnerving. And no one unnerves me.
