Page 83 of Revolve
“How’s your jock?”
The question catches me off guard. It’s the first time he’s shownany interest in Dylan. Justin’s always so proper, so polite, that the jab at my partner makes the corner of my lip lift.
“Great,” I reply.
“Sorry about last night. But what did you expect from a stoner hockey player? He chuckles dryly as the class settles in. “At least it seems like he’s going back to his roots. Though it’s only matter of time before he fucks that up just like your performance.”
His words sting. Dylansavedour performance. He’s the only reason we made it onto that podium. A fierce protectiveness sears through me like fire.
Fuck being the bigger person. I step closer, eyes locked on his. “Talk aboutmypartner again, and you’re going to regret ever opening your mouth,” I sneer. “I never want to speak to you again, Justin. It’ll only make it harder for me to pretend you’re not a fucking coward.” My voice cracks, and this time I don’t care if he hears it.
“You don’t mean that, Sierra. I care about you. We’re each other’s anchor—”
I grab my bag and walk right out of the class. A part of me hates to give him the satisfaction, but I can’t do it today. And even as I tell myself not to think about his words, something still pulls me to the arena.
Hockey practice is loud and in full swing, and I spot him instantly. Maybe because I’ve memorized how his body moves on skates. Or how Dylan’s presence fills the whole space, larger than the arena itself. He’s fast, ruthless on the ice, maneuvering around the cones with the puck glued to his stick, slamming into defenders, firing shots into the net.
He looks happy. Exactly where he belongs, doing another thing he’s great at. All I have is skating, and that means I’ve let him into every aspect of my life. The thought of doing it without him makes my chest burn.
Sometimes there’s a rare occurrence where you’re lucky enough to achieve the thing you’ve dreamed of. But even if I take the accidentout of the equation, it’s hard to pinpoint whether I’ve achieved my dream or if I’m still trying to find it. It feels like I have to choose between being happy and my dream, when all this time, I thought they were the same thing.
The weight of the loss hits me then. I have to be better on my own. And there’s only one way I know how to do that.
THIRTY
SIERRA
SHIN SPLINTS SUCK.
Sacrificing everything you have to a sport so unforgiving it leaves you battered and bruised also sucks. I walked to the rink, just a few minutes past campus. It’s poorly maintained, but with Dalton’s strict rules, it’s the only community rink open at this hour, and I couldn’t just sit and keepthinking. It’s exhausting hearing my constant worries, insecurities, and flashbacks coil together and spring out in different directions. Skating is starting to become an extinguished flame. A match you try to keep alight only for a gust of wind to leave you with blackened smoke.
I push myself to feel the burn in my muscles as I speed into a jump I shouldn’t even be attempting. A Lutz, clean and crisp, but when I land on the uneven surface, I stumble and crash onto my knees. It’s cold enough that my skin is numb, so I barely feel it.
A sick part of me enjoys reminding my body that I’m in control. It can’t just give up on me one day and decide it’s over. When I attempt another jump, I fall again, releasing a frustrated sound when I stand on shaky legs.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
The deep voice cuts through the sound of my skates. I stop in the center, turning to find Dylan standing on the edge, watching me. His hair curls at the bottom from the rain, his cheeks are a little pink from the cold, and he’s wearing a hoodie and black joggers, straight out of practice. He looks pissed.
I realize I’ve never seen him angry before. He’s all jokes and pickup lines, but right now, he’s angry, so angry I can feel it thrumming off him from all the way over here.
“Do you need me to speak slower?” he asks like a condescending asshole. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Skating. Have you heard of it?” I barely manage to say through a ragged breath.
“It’s barely holding together. And you’re doing jumps like it’s Olympic-grade ice. What are you thinking?”
I’m not.
“You gonna stand there until you trip on a divot and sprain your ankle? I’ll take you to a real rink and let you fuck up all your joints. Step off. Now, Sierra.”
I hate how irritating and right he is. I also hate how hot he looks when he’s angry.
“I need to practice,” I mutter.
His gaze turns steely. “How to be an idiot? Because you don’t need to, you’re nailing it.”
I glare. “I never asked for you to come here, Dylan.”
