Page 16 of Icing Hearts

But I hold his gaze as I breathe, “Intuition.”

He shakes his head with a ghost of a grin and murmurs, “That’ll never hold up in court.”

Monday rolls around and it’s positively frigid. I wear my fuzzy boots, knit tights, corduroy skirt, and a chunky sweater that has a blue pumpkin on the front to school . Usually, I try not to wear such easily identifiable pieces, but this sweater was such a good deal. Monday is ponytail day, and my ribbon matches my ice-blue skirt. Upon entering history class, I notice my skirt, pumpkin, and ribbon match Tory’s hoodie and Nike’s. It’s kismet.

I volunteer to present our project first, and Tory only grumbles for a moment before rising to cue up our slideshow. We absolutely kill it.

When I forget to mention a minor point, Tory picks up the slack. When he fails to mention a key player in the historical context of our research, I find a way to do the same for him. We are chemistry embodied. It’s a thing of beauty. Neither of us is surprised when Mr. M ceremoniously hands us his completed grading rubric and we’ve earned ninety-seven out of one hundred points. I practically float to my seat, soaring high with relief and gratefulness at another hard-earned A.

Tory holds out up his hand, and I slap his palm in celebration. Nearly the same moment I make contact, he pulls back and shoves both hands into his hoodie pocket. But he leans forward on the desk, smiling up at me as if there’s no game between us, almost as if we’re…friends.

Throughout class, we joke and chat in whispered tones. It almost makes me forget that I need to be careful. No matter how natural or comfortable orrightit feels, I can’t get too close to Tory Amato—or anyone else, for that matter. But especially him.

But I let myself enjoy his physical and companionable closeness for the duration of class. When the period ends, Tory roots around in his backpack and I see him pull a bottle of painkillers from the bottom out of the corner of my eye. He attempts to open the lid, and I promptly smack the bottle out of his hand and on to the floor with a rattle. To be fair, I don’t really mean to hit him that hard. But in the split second we make contact, I am reminded of just how warm and pleasant his skin feels, and I don’t regret it.

Tory’s mouth gapes and he looks at me sidelong. He’s trying to be serious, but I know he’s at least mildly amused because one corner of his lip twitches north ever so slightly. “Did you have a break with reality, Charity?”

“You can’t take that,” I blurt.

“Why thehellnot?” he demands.

“That bottle, Tory Amato? Equals toxic. Homeopathy is a much safer route. I’ll drop a tincture off at practice if your muscles are feeling sore.” I add even louder, “Heaven knows I wouldn’t mind massaging out a few of those kinks myself.” A few classmates snicker as I make heart-eyes at Tory, hands folded under my chin.

He rolls his eyes. “I don’t want yourtincture, Clara, or your hands anywhere near me.”

And then I smile. I smile so broadly I’m certain I resemble a chipmunk who has their cheeks stuffed with goodies. Because Victory Winner Amato actually referred to me by my true name. He probably just did it to throw me off-balance, but I recover quickly. “Plus, you can’t just take meds at school. It’s against the rules. You have to go to the nurse.”

Mr. M and the rest of our classmates clear out. “You’re such a goodie, goodie.” He shakes his head at me, picks up the bottle. The way he says it feels less like an insult and more like a compliment. Either way, I’m not entirely sure how he intended the statement, so it’s my turn to roll my eyes at him.

As Tory slings his backpack over one shoulder, he stalks toward me. When he’s close—scratch that, entirely too close—I can smell his cinnamon gum and his shampoo or cologne. Whatever it is, it makes me feel dangerous and heady.

His breath tickles the baby hairs by my ear when he leans down over my desk and says, “I’m beginning to think I might just be the most dangerous part of your life, Charity.” His voice is all velvet and smoke and promise.

Several moments pass and he draws back, strolling for the door as if he didn’t just send cataclysmic shock waves through my entire existence. But I’m Clara Larsen and no boy is allowed to best me, not even him. So I scurry along behind him and when I’m within ear shot I freeze and counter, “And I’m the most exciting part of yours, Tory.”

Before he has time to turn around, I peel off toward my locker, leaving him to stew over my words. Because they’re true, both his statement and my own.

And that’s exactly what terrifies me the most.

Chapter 11

Clara

Two days later, it’s the second hockey game of the season. There’s still an excited buzz, and I baked Tory black bean brownies for his care basket. Black bean brownies might sound gross, but after you puree everything and add maple syrup and dark chocolate for sweetness, they’re truly amazing—healthy and loaded with protein and perfect for high-performing athletes.

Coach gave us managers crewneck sweatshirts to wear on game days. I wore mine with a white tennis skirt and ice-blue knee socks with my black Mary Janes with the T-strap. These aren’t just for the aesthetic, though. Last year, I saved up for months and bought a second-hand pair with a zero-drop heal and wide toe-box. They’re the most comfortable shoes I own. Perfect for a twelve-hour day inside the same four cinderblock walls.

The managers are allowed to use the weight room, but the rest of the student body has to use the old one above the gym. I decide to stroll through on my way to the locker room to scope out the scenery and get comfortable with the equipment before committing to a workout under prying eyes.

Big mistake.

Huge.

Because the scenery in question is none other than Tory Amato. Sitting in an ice bath. Shirtless.

My ability to catch him half-naked is uncanny, astounding, really. I must be a masochist because I seem to enjoy torturing myself.

He’s been cold and distant since we finished our project, barely responding to my shameless flirting. In short, he hasn’t been playing the game, and it’s infuriating.

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