Page 2 of Icing Hearts

“Clara,” he drawls, oozing his self-inflated ego all over my pastel Mary Jane platforms.

Silence.

Eye roll.

“What do you want,Henri?” I sass, using the French pronunciation of his name because that’s the class we share together. He’s been attempting to cheat off my tests all year.

“You,” he replies with a nonchalant shrug. “Will you ever stop stalking Amato and give anyone else a chance?”

“Oh, hitting on me and insulting me in the same sentence. Bravo.”

“What? I like freaky girls, and your obsession with him is likely transferable, so I’m shooting my shot.” Henry shrugs and looks away, appearing quite bored with not only my presence but the entire conversation. How flattering.

I glance over at Henry’s cronies standing on the opposite side of the narrow hallway, eavesdropping.

“You know what, Henry?” I gear up, “Tory is a higher-value man than you could ever dream to be. But if I find myself ready to slum around with uncultured swine, you’ll be my first call.” Henry’s buddies chortle at his embarrassment. I should turn on my heels and leave him in the dust, but I make the mistake of dwelling to walk with Jack.

Not one to let his embarrassment linger and bruise his fragile ego, Henry shoots back, “Maybe you should take another look in the mirror, because the only pig I see is the one hiding behind all that lipstick.”

Henry’s friends really holler this time, and I feel my cheeks and ears flame crimson. I shove off the bank of lockers to have another go at him just as a deep voice booms behind me.

“Shut up, Mavis.” It’s all velvet and cigarette smoke and blasé indifference.

In a word? Tory.

He’s come to my rescue.

I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face and now my cheeks are pinking for a different reason. Though, you’d never know because of my foundation. My mask hides many sins, and I manage to keep my squealing internal.

Henry slinks off in silence as Tory walks by without a glance. That’s the thing about Tory. No one crosses him. No one challenges him. His word is gold.

He wants to leave a party? The party is now over. In fourth grade, everyone wore Heelies. You know, the massive sneakers with wheels in the bottom. Total death-traps, but they had a moment in elementary pop culture. Well, Tory’s dad wouldn’t risk his junior hockey star breaking an ankle, so he prohibited Tory from wearing them. That weekend, there were suddenly dozens of Heelies on the shelves at the local Goodwill. I’m pretty sure the local newspaper did a write-up on the anomaly. But it wasn’t an anomaly. It was Tory.

“Clara, you have to stop provoking the meat heads,” Jack admonishes as he slams my locker shut and hands me my history binder.

I shrug my shoulders and force an easy grin. “But it’s so fun, Jacky. Toodles.” I pat Jack on the head and skip to Tory a few paces down the hall.

My blonde curls bounce against the back of my pastel cardigan. Since the ninth grade, I’ve curled my hair nearly every day for school. I get up early, I curl my hair and do my makeup. I usually wear a ribbon or bow and pick out a carefully curated outfit that compliments my soft girl aesthetic. My aesthetic and my love for Tory make up most of my public identity. These iconic factors have been intentionally chosen to keep prying eyes at bay. Not that I’m complaining. Skirts, dresses, sweaters, soft fabrics, and floral prints? They have my heart. They have my soul. And I won’t let anyone sway me.

The commercial-grade carpet muffles the sounds of my skipping feet, but I know Tory hears me. And I know he knows it’s me. The quirk of his head in my direction tells me so. For a moment, just before I link my arm with his, I need to catch my breath. Not because I’m winded. Granted , I don’t do nearly as much cardio as I should to maintain proper heart health, but skipping down the hallway isn’t enough to get me winded.

Toryis.

His beauty steals my breath every time I see him. I had the wind knocked out of me in that fifth-grade flag football game. Seeing Tory is a bit like that, but on a smaller scale. As if the air just gets vacuumed right out of my lungs.

Tory is too perfect for this world. Jawline sharp enough to cut glass, nearly always peppered with day-old stubble. Square chin. High cheekbones and a straight nose with impeccably arched brows.

He’s Italian, of course, a rarity in our Minnesota town where most of us are fair and blonde, myself included. The Amato’s are probably the only Italian family in town. They moved to the area in second grade to increase his chances of making it to the NHL. Tory’s dad owns a tech firm of some sort, and they are absolutely loaded.

Tory is a swarthy breath of fresh air. Plus, there’s his stereotypical hockey player hair—mahogany in color and easily pushed back or left to fall in his eyes. And it’s the eyes that get me. Brown. Deeper than the Marianas Trench. Soulful and ready to speak volumes when his lips refuse to do so.

I’m such a goner. Oh, well.

When we’re side-by-side and walking in step, I’m reminded of just how tall he is. My head lines up perfectly with his bicep, and I’m tempted to rest my cheek on his arm. But I refrain.

The warmth of his skin seeps through his hockey hoodie as his scent swirls around me. Cinnamon, mostly, but also earthy and fresh. Like that first sniff of a newly bound book.

“My honey-tongued valentine has rescued his fair maiden,” I say as I match his pace and add dramatically, “You’re myhero.”

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