Page 11 of Fly Boy
“Babe...”
I hate that one word has the power to make me feel so vulnerable, like he can see into the deepest parts of my soul. The parts I hide from everyone.There is no need to get to know the rich girl. We already know what she’s like.Sitting beside him, I tug at my laces to redo them, my eyes laser-focused on my task. “If we add in something more difficult—”
Evan grabs my shoulders and twists me to face him, his hands sliding down my arms to take mine in his. “I know you've seen the article.”
I bite back a shiver, the cold wood under my butt creeping through my leggings. “How?”
“Skylar found it in the trash and told me.” I’m about to roll my eyes, when Evan tugs sharply on my hands. “Hey, she’s only looking out for you.”
I glance away and look down at my knees. “That could have been anyone’s magazine.”
He huffs. “You are such a bad liar. Who else would tear off the front page and crumble it in a rage before tossing it away?” Urging me to meet his gaze, he squeezes my fingers. “Skye also said she heard you and Molly arguing before practice, too.”
“She’s just a little tattle-tail, isn’t she?” I scoff.
Evan smirks. “Nah, she’s got a soft spot for me, so she will do whatever I ask her to do.”
“Which is?”
His grin widens. “Let me know when people are giving you shit.” He hesitates, screwing up his mouth as he considers his next words, ones I suspect I won’t like. “Specifically, whenMollyis giving you shit.”
I glare at him. “I’m a big girl. I can look after myself.”
“I know that,” he agrees. “But I also know that the bullshit written in those articles gets stuck in your head.”
He tries to tap my temple, but I slap his hand away.
Groaning, I let my head tip backward. “I was just having a shit day that day, okay?” I straighten, knocking my skate against the leg of the bench. “And yeah, maybe I thought if we did something different, it would stop assholes from writing about me. At least for a while.”
Evan barks a laugh and pushes to his feet. “Babe, you’re Pippa-fucking-Cartwright. You’re always going to be written about. It’s only worse now that you’re a success in your own right, not just your father's. But it’s not just you. The second you start winning is the second people will have something to say about it. Whether that’s good or bad, it’s up to you how much power you let their words have.” He stretches out his hand and hauls me onto my blades. “I mean, if I read every negative thing the press said, or worse, my so-called friends sold to magazines when I started, I’d never get out of bed.”
“I know,” I concede, following him back onto the ice. “Didn’t help though that you made a name for yourself in the community as the biggest man-whore to ever man-whore.”
He dusts off imaginary lint from his shoulder. “When you are this good-looking, why keep that just to one person? It’s my civic duty to share the love around.” I roll my eyes this time, and he skates beside me, bumping his hip into mine. Leaning over, he kisses my cheek. “Fuck the haters, Pippa. Now come on, what other ideas did that pretty little brain of yours come up with?”
“Really?” I ask, picking up speed, the cold air stinging my cheeks.
“Sure, why not? But not what you first suggested,” he muses. “Let’s get the landing for the Lutz as clean as possible and we can think about how to make our routine better, okay?”
I reach up and pull at my hair, tied tightly in a bun, my bones rattling with frustration.
“But we’ve got Coach Camille,” I implore him. “And as much as she might be getting on my last nerves right now, sheisthe lastperson I've seen flawlessly execute that combo in the past ten years.”
He makes a sound like he’s thinking about it. “Okay, we’ll ask her.”
“Ohmi—” I squeal.
“But if she doesn’t think we’re ready, we’re not doing it, okay?” he interrupts, but nothing he can say dampens my excitement. He grabs my hand and pulls me after him, laughing. “C’mon, let's try to ace that landing before she comes back.”
Chapter Five
November
“Why did I think opening my own shop was a good idea?” my youngest brother asks.
His face fills my screen, his cheeks splattered with what is most likely grease, as our middle brother finally connects to our monthly call.
“Dude, you look like shit,” is the first thing Bowie says, and Teddy glares at the camera.
