Page 20 of Icing Hearts

The chain metal shirt of his costume is cool against my bare skin. While I don’t get a kiss on the cheek, when he pulls back, Tory’s eyes rake down my body as he gestures for someone to hand him two shots. He definitely doesn’t do that to all the other girls. My skin tingles under his lingering gaze.

I step closer, seeing that Tiffany is busy flirting with one of the other hockey captains. Perhaps they aren’t exclusive after all.

Tory hands me a shot of something amber that smells of cinnamon and bad decisions. Just like him.

Everything about him is cinnamon. He chews cinnamon gum. His vape is cinnamon-flavored. And, apparently, he drinks cinnamon whiskey. Everything but the gum reeks of risk, and I fear I’m playing with fire.

He hands me a shot and taps the plastic cup against my own. “To charity work.”

As I stand there awkwardly, Tory does two more shots with his buddies, and I realize how drunk he is. He stumbles a bit and leans against the back of a couch for stability. Tiffany finally turns to him and begins dancing on him. They don’t actually dance together. Tory isn’t a big dancer. He only dances with me because of the lost bet. Otherwise, girls just dance up against him. It’s weird and awkward. But I guess guys like Tory get away with stuff like that.

Tory pulls out his phone and records what I can only guess is a very drunken Instagram story. When he pans down to Tiffany, gyrating against his lap, she knocks his phone out of his hand and stands upright, yelling at him. He cusses loudly, expressing distaste for the situation. Though, I would probably do the same if my drunk boyfriend started recording me in a suggestive position. He’s an idiot.

They argue back and forth for a minute, and I walk away, finding a couple of my lunch girls to dance with. A few minutes later, Tory and Tiffany get loud. I walk closer because I’m totally nosy and live for the drama. It sounds like they’re still fighting about the video he tried to take.

“You better not post that on the internet. Someone with my title can’t be seen dating an alcoholic,” Tiffany snaps. One point for Tiffany.

Tory leans on the back of the couch, clearly inebriated, a sinister grin plastered across his face. “Didn’t you only get the title because the first-place winner failed a drug test?” He laughs. Wow. Below the belt. Three-pointer for sure.

She slaps him without a second thought. Dang. Five points, easily.

Those who witness the affront suppress their “oohs.” It’s Tory after all. You don’t react when Tory gets knocked down. You look away in deference to his social standing—his status as a high school demigod. Unless you’re me. I don’t mind seeing him knocked down a few pegs.

He laughs harder and turns the other cheek. Literally. “Get me on this side for good measure.” Oof. Two points. That was unexpected.

“I want to leave.” Unoriginal, Tiffany. Come on, you got more fight in you. One point.

“Already ordered you an Uber, darlin’.” He holds up his phone and waves it in her face. “Uber XL to match your vanity.” With that, my mouth drops in shock. Four points. Scathing. Sometimes, I forget just how ruthless Tory can be. I expect it on the ice. But in social situations, it’s unsettling.

Tiffany stalks off toward the foyer and Tory calls after her, “Maybe next time don’t flirt with my friend all night!” That was petty. Minus a point.

Final score: Tiffany seven, Tory eight.

The prince wins by a hair. I wish he didn’t. Though, no one has come that close to humbling him in quite some time.

I turn to walk away but I feel a tug on the back of my unitard and turn back. Tory peers at me through hooded eyes. “And where do you think you’re going? I owe you a dance.”

He slurs his words, and I suddenly feel like I have better things to do than be his second choice of entertainment for the evening. Plus, his actions toward Tiffany leave a bad taste in my mouth.

“I’m good,” I tell him. But he takes my hand and holds tight.

“Nonsense!” he barks, turning to drag me to the center of the living room. “I’m a man of my word.”

“You certainly aren’t a man of honor.”

“I honor the honorable,” he drawls.

“Like you’d know.”

Three minutes of arguing later, I pull a reluctant apology from Tory and finally respond to him reeling me in with an imaginary fishing pole. If only to keep our streak going.

Halfway through an upbeat song, someone turns out the lights. Everyone cheers, and I’m tempted to roll my eyes, but Tory wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me close. Closer than we’ve ever been.

Far closer than we should be.

And then he stumbles backward, knocking into two girls. One of them goes sprawling and Tory asks if she’s looking for something on the floor.

“Help her, you drunk idiot!” I demand and he drops to his knees and leans in to kiss her.

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