Page 13 of Icing Hearts

Four deep red, fresh, angry bruises dot each of my knuckles, and I flex my fingers with pride. I relish the dull ache from my fight. While fighting in high school hockey doesn’t warrant an ejection, it’s uncommon. But Ilikefighting. Which is why I’m eager to bypass college altogether and go right to the NHL after graduation. I’m sick of playing with boys. There’s nothing like getting rocked by a six-foot-plus Canadian to make the weight on my shoulders a little less distracting. No one seems to notice the evidence of my violence as they flood into the house with clownish smiles.

Parties are frequent in the Amato residence. Nearly every weekend, either my parents or I are hosting, though for very different reasons. Sure, I like having parties and the perks that come with hosting—sleeping in my own bed, for example. But I haveonereason to throw parties.

A few months after her mom died, I started an argument with Clara. I was mad about everything and at everyone. Life felt so futile.

Clara said the new science teacher was cute but that he wore a toupee. I may or may not have been jealous, so I bet her she wouldn’t go up and tug on his hair during recess. It was back when everyone had recess together and back when there was still recess in middle school. Stupidly, or maybe unstupidly, I let her set the stakes. It was a few weeks before the end-of-year dance. Theonlydance we had in middle school.

Her terms were such: if she pulled the teacher’s hair, I had to dance with her one time. But not only at the end-of-year dance—any time there was dancing at any event, in and out of school I’d be cursed to dance with her for a single song. Music to my juvenile ears.

Naturally, I jumped at the chance, even though I hemmed and hawed in the moment. Looking back, the stakes were probably way too high to justify the risk. But, then again, she likely could have gotten suspended for the offense. Though, Clara was getting a free pass foreverythingat the time. I’ve never been so elated to lose a bet. Seeing her pull the teacher’s hair was a thing of beauty. Sweet Clara just smiled up at him, patted his shoulder and walked away with an impossibly smug grin curling at her lips.

I’ve held my end of the bargain.

Clara and her acquaintances walk in a few minutes after things really get rolling. I’d call them her friends, but they aren’t. Each of the girls she arrived with greets me and I give them all a polite head nod while scrolling through my phone. My ears are trained on the back of the line of ladies, waiting for Clara’s signature scent to engulf me. But when finally look up, she’s completely ignored me and is already on the dance floor with a drink in hand.

A total rebuff. How petty.

When Clara dances, shereallydances. She eases into it but within minutes she’s cleared a six-foot section of space to do leaps and spins and pirouettes. Not to mention twerking, the running man, and snow angels on the carpet. She’s still in her signature skirt, but she wears shorts underneath for the occasion. And she dances all night long, only taking short water breaks. Halfway through the night, when she’s glistening with sweat, her hair usually goes up in a bun that resembles a pineapple.

Clara is typically so impeccable and meticulous when it comes to her appearance. But when dancing is involved, she doesn’t care that she’s sweating and her makeup is smearing around her under-eyes. Because she’s having a great time and, for once, she lets her façade go and she’s just…herself. For however long the music lasts, Clara justlets go. And she does this ateveryevent with a dance floor. Sometimes, if there isn’t a dance floor, but the music is good, she makes her own.

Maybe she does it so she doesn’t have to socialize. Clara’s an expert at the shallow and superficial. She knows everyone’s names and a few anecdotes about each of her peers. But that’s about it.

Except for me. She knows almost everything about me. I know almost nothing about her.

And I hate it.

But I love watching her dance.

An hour later, she’s still dancing and still pretending I don’t exist. Clara has danced approximately 2.75 times with three other guys—one of whom only made it through 75 percent of the song before giving up on trying to temper her moves.

I go outside to smokeand finish my drink. My parents don’t know I smoke. Neither does Coach Anderson. But I’m nothing without for my select vices. Clara, alcohol, smoking, my bike. All bad for me. All necessary distractions from the truths that plague me.

By the time I come back inside, Clara has vacated the dance floor. Surprisingly, she’s made her way over to chat with some of the hockey guys. In an attempt to forget her, and keep myself from doing something I’ll regret, I go to the kitchen and play a few drinking games, earning myself a strong buzz.

My liquid courage has me seeking out Clara for one of the first times in my life. I make my way over to the group she’s still conversing with, and they immediately open their circle to let me in. She laughs touching Vince’s arm, and I nearly choke on my drink. He’s saying something about how great of an addition she’ll be as a hockey manager while playing with one of her ribbons. The sight gives me lots of ideas of things I want to do to him, even the least of which is a jailable offense.

“Let’s get our dance over with, Charity,” I cut in. Vince’s hand drops to his side, and he seems to notice me for the first time.

Clara looks up and brushes me off. “I’m good,” she says, but her gaze stays on me.

I roll my eyes. “Fine with me.” I spin on my heels to walk away from her, knowing she’ll follow. Once I’m in the middle of the dance floor, I turn and, unsurprisingly, find Clara half a dozen steps behind me. A satisfied smirk rolls across my lips. She’ll always come when I call. Half of me feels sick at the thought—the power I have over her feels unfair to wield. The other half is relieved; I need her like I need air, even if I can’t have her the way I want.

My movements are exaggerated but even half drunk, I’m exponentially more graceful than most of the clowns gyrating around us.

Clara crosses her arms and taps the toe of her boot on the oriental rug. Her hips rock back and forth, unable to resist the throbbing bass. I hold up my index finger and make a circle in the air, indicating that I want her ass in my lap and her mouth away from my ear. Reluctantly, she rotates, and I let her back up into me, taking a drink as I do.

The lights are low, and I enjoy the neon blue, green, and pink strobe lights from the DJ dance across her curls. It makes me want to pull the ribbons from her braids and make her do that pineapple bun thing, but I keep my hands to myself as usual.

Suddenly, she whirls around, nearly whipping me in the face with one of those braids.

“I’m mad at you,” she growls. But her hips keep moving, and I keep following.

What she doesn’t realize is that I can’t handle her like this. So close. Smelling so wonderful. Confronting all our lies that we tell ourselves, and each other, with nothing but her ocean eyes—which are now quite sharp—consuming me.

So, of course, I look away. Even though all I desire is to get lost in her. In her eyes, her lips, her hips…

“How will Ieversurvive?” My tone is scathing, but she’s undeterred.

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