Fake Skating(76)

Starting with the damn lidocaine-patch incident that would not leave my memory. I teeter-tottered every hour, I swear to God, between thinking she’d been doing a good deed that night, rendering first aid, to thinking we’d been this closeto something hot happening in that tiny room.

My brain replayed it on a loop, over and over again, torturing me.

But ever since we’d left that room, I felt like she was pulling away. It was probably my imagination, because she was still doing all the fake-girlfriend things she’d done before, but there was something in her eyes that made me feel like she was putting up a wall.

And I didn’t know how I felt about that.

Because wasn’t I supposed to want there to be a wall?

I couldn’t remember what I was supposed to want and how I was supposed to feel anymore.

And then, to make matters more confusing, she kept bringing me bizarro lunches in the library, which was somehow charming as shit because like the patches, it felt like she cared.

See?

Total mind fuck.

This time it was a peanut butter wrap with pickled jalape?os, a slice of bacon, and crunched-up potato chips.

“So you smoke a lot is what you’re telling me,” I said as I looked down at the lunch I had zero interest in eating. “This is something you discovered when you were high as fuck, right?”

She rolled her eyes but giggled, a sweet little sound that made me want to do whatever it took to make her giggle again. “Just trust me, okay? Something about the flavor combo works.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Grandpa Mick used to eat one before every game,” she lied, her eyes dancing like she thought she was hilarious as she dared me to eat her shitty wrap. “He calls them his secret weapon.”

“I think it’s cute as hell, the way you suck so badly at lying.”

That made the giggle turn into a laugh. God, she should laugh like that all the time. The Dani I used to know was alwayslaughing, and I hadn’t realized until now that I’d been missing it.

“By the way, what exactly is boot hockey?” she asked, taking a bite of her wrap.

“Basically just a version of hockey that people play in street shoes on ice, usually at the park,” I said, taking out my questionable tortilla. “Why?”

“Because Cass and Lillie were talking about it. Tell me everything you know,” she said, taking another bite.

Did I always find the way she ate adorable?

I took a bite—what the fuck—and said, “The bar down the street has a league, but around here most people just play it for fun, like pickup basketball games. The guys in leagues usually wear broomball shoes for better traction, but when my friends play, they don’t.”

“Good God, what is broomball?” she asked with a snort, like this was the funniest thing she’d ever heard of. “Wait—are literal brooms involved? Like Quidditch from Harry Potter? I could get into that!”

Is she being this cute on purpose?

I started describing it, trying to focus on anything but whatever the hell was in my mouth, but she interrupted after she swallowed her food, shaking her head.

“Ah, so not Quidditch. Hmm. But broom, though? I guess that makes as much sense as hitting a little ball around with a hockey stick.”

“You didn’t just call a puck a ball, did you?”

“No,” she said, her eyes big but her mouth smiling as she pushed her napkin forward. “I would never. I mean, I’m Mick Fucking Boche’s granddaughter, thank you very much.”

“Uh-huh.” Shehas to be doing it on purpose. Good God.

Now I was focusing too much on her mouth. Get it together!

I cleared my throat. “Actually, a bunch of people are playing tomorrow,” I said, taking another bite because I couldn’t notfinish the atrocity she’d made just for me.

“I know,” she said with a funny look. “I’m asking these questions because I’m probably going to go.”

“You actually want to play?” I asked, fucking shocked because it was the last thing I would’ve imagined her wanting to do.

She hated the cold.

“I mean, how hard can it be, running around on the ice, hitting a puck with a stick?”

“Oh, sweet little baby girl.”

“Screw you, now I’m for sure playing,” she said with a laugh. “I mean, if Cassie can do it, I can do it. Probably without any help.”

“Cassie played hockey until her junior year,” I corrected. “Not an equal situation.”

“Says you,” she said, waving a hand as if it was no big deal before she finished her wrap and went back to her book.

But going back to my book wasn’t so easy.

Because the sight of her destroyed my concentration.

She gnawed on that full bottom lip, lost in her book, while my brain shorted out, getting lost in the idea of her.

Of what she’d do if I leaned across the table and kissed her.

Long lashes, cherry lips, apple juice.

Of what wecould do behind the tall book stacks on the other side of the computers.

Soft curls, pink fingernails, flowers.

Of how—

“You’re not going to read?”

“Huh?” My eyes snapped into focus and Dani was looking at me strangely, which made sense because I’d literally been staring into space like a total dipshit.