Icebound: Chapter 4

“You need a steadier hand to center the clay, Philomena.” Pierre peers over my shoulder, letting his long gray hair fall into my face.

I lift my foot off the pottery wheel pedal. “I know, I’m trying, but my fingers are a little shaky today.”

“Hmm, indeed,” he muses, clapping his hands speckled with dried paint to capture the students’ attention. “Let’s pause our creative toils for a moment. Today, we delve into the nuanced world of hand-building techniques, but first, I’m eager to hear about your progress with The Peaceful Mind Project.”

Our vivacious ceramics professor is in his seventies, but despite his white hair and wrinkled face, he’s one of the most youthful people I’ve met. He demands we call him Pierre—never Professor.

Pierre scans the cluttered art studio. It’s a mess of canvases, kilns, and half-finished paintings, but it’s one of my favorite places to visit on campus when I need to tune the world out.

“Consider this a pivotal moment in your artistic journey,” he announces. “You have precisely three months to secure a donation for the charity auction, which marks the culmination of our semester. Remember, pottery, painting, and art in all forms can be exceptionally therapeutic.”

Noah leans across the jars of paintbrushes to whisper in my ear. With his wild blond curls, gray Henley, and black-rimmed glasses, he’s Picasso’s wet dream.

We’ve been desk partners since we walked into Sculptural Ceramics at the beginning of the semester. “So, basically, Pierre wants us to do his dirty work and find the auction items for the charity event that he organized? Nice.”

I wipe my clay-spattered hands on my apron. “At least it’s for a good cause. I’ve been researching The Peaceful Mind Project, and they provide funding for art studios around the world. I mean, throwing a pot calms me down, so it’s helpful…”

“True.” Noah raises his hand. “Hey, Pierre. Can’t we just donate one of the art pieces we’ve made in class instead of finding an auction item?”

Pierre lifts his nose, prim and proper. “Unfortunately, no one would bid on your piece, Noah.”

A few people in class chuckle.

“I’d bid on his piece,” I interject in his defense. “I find his spherical sculptures to be full of delicate nuances, with each subtlety carrying a certain ethereal grace.”

I pulled that comment out of my ass.

Pierre flicks a finger in the air. “Ah, an astute observation, Philomena.”

“Thanks. I’m glad you thought that was astute.”

Noah nudges my shoulder. He was seeing someone earlier this semester, but he’s been more touchy with me recently, so I’m not sure if they broke up. “I’ve told Pierre I just really like jellyfish since all my sculptures look like gigantic piles of shit.”

“They’re not that bad.”

Pierre continues his lecture, and since we aren’t working with our hands anymore, I shift my focus back to the fifty tabs open on my computer screen.

Rhode Tremblay should pay me rent for all the space he’s taking up in my mind. I scan the articles.

Rhode Tremblay’s Game Day Secret: Beet Smoothies. Rhode Tremblay’s Philanthropic “Power Play” to Children’s Hockey Programs. Rhode Tremblay Caught in Scandalous Act with Olivia Vervain in Tenerife. Rhode Tremblay and Micah Cruz’s Pre-Game Ritual: Beanies & Jockstraps.

Micah Cruz?

That name rings through my memories. I squint at the screen, peering closer at the guy with a killer smile next to Rhode.

I remember that panty-melting grin from high school. Micah’s gorgeous with locks of midnight hair and amber eyes glittering like topaz. That playful twinkle never seems to dull.

He’s older now, but he was voted Most Likely to End Up in A Dancing Competition. Looks like he got his dream in the NHL and proved our Superlatives committee wrong.

Micah was always one of my favorite people in high school because he can make anyone smile, even when they’re having a bad day, and I used to have a lot of terrible days.

I slam my laptop shut.

This fake date has been looming in my mind all week, and there’s absolutely no way I can go out with Rhode Tremblay, who—based on the internet sinkhole I delved into—is not just a hockey player, he’s Nashville’s Naughtiest Bachelor.

There are a few articles that claim he’s a revered veteran, but I was scrolling through some pretty scandalous pictures of him, chugging expensive tequila from between some girl’s legs, so I have my doubts about his reputation.

I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that the same man who saved us from mutual destruction last week also tied up a woman on a yacht near the coast of Tenerife and accidentally set it on fire as she orgasmed.

He’s a little wild, but maybe that’s something all hockey goalies have in common. They do have to stand in front of a net, stopping flying pucks all day.

When class ends, I grab my messenger bag. “See you next week, Noah.”

As I stroll through campus beneath the crisp winter sky, I mentally run through a list of excuses to call off this date. I can’t admit I’m a twenty-two-year-old art student to a professional hockey player. He’d laugh in my face.

What do we even have in common? He’s thirty-three. What if he still leaves voicemails?

My last semester of senior year is about me—my goals, my dreams, my ambitions. I’m done molding myself to fit someone else’s needs. I’m leaving for Argentina in July for a three-month pottery fellowship I worked my ass off to get.

I don’t need to be distracted by older men who may as well have HEARTBREAK written on their forehead in their ex-girlfriend’s red lipstick.

I stride up the icy steps to my sister’s brownstone and shut the door. I flip on the living room TV for some background noise because I can’t stand silence, flicking through channels until Rhode’s handsome face pops up on the screen.

“How’re you feeling ahead of tonight’s game, Rhode?” the interviewer’s deep voice seeps through our TV.

His lips curve into a smile on the screen, unfurling with the stiffness of a robot. “I’m feeling good. Really good. I’ve had some solid practice sessions with my coach, so I’m ready for tonight’s game. The team’s ready.”

“Good to see you’re still confident,” the interviewer says. “Especially since there have been rumors floating around about your retirement.”

I keep my eyes on the water droplets speckling Rhode’s damp hair while spritzing the succulents lining the windowsill. He looks ready for the Cannes Film Festival in his elegant charcoal suit, but he’s wearing an olive green tie with little cacti all over the material. I bet he’s left a trail of broken hearts all over the world, and mine will not be one of them.

“Shit,” I mutter, realizing I accidentally watered the sheer-gray curtains.

My sister won’t be happy about that since she meticulously crafted every piece of furniture in her apartment. The room’s got this whole chic meets jungle vibe, courtesy of my potted plants transforming the place into a rustic brick rainforest. It’s the kind of home I’d dream of living in forever if it didn’t come with Gwen’s irritating presence.

“So, what’s next for you, Rhode?” the interviewer asks. “What does the road ahead, if you will, look like after the League?”

Rhode’s grin looks carved on his face. There’s no dimple like the warm smile he gave me last week.

He crosses one knee on the screen in that stereotypical I-give-no-shits way all fuckboys seem to master. “I’m feeling stronger than ever, so I hope you think my face is pretty because you’ll be seeing a lot more of me next season. I won’t be leaving the League anytime soon.”

Grabbing my phone, I scan the lone message Rhode sent with his name. A hot rush of panic slices through me.

I need to cancel this date, and Rhode won’t get this for a while if he’s doing an interview, so I make my fingers move across the screen.

He’s probably got thousands of women in his contacts, so he’ll be in someone else’s bed by midnight, moaning their name with mine forgotten.

There. Sent.

“Since when do you watch hockey?”

I jump at the sound of that grating voice.

“What are you doing here, Gwendolyn?” I say to my sister, keeping my focus on Rhode’s chiseled face.

“Really? You’re still sticking with the whole Gwendolyn thing? You’ve called me Gwen since you were five.”

“Yes, but that was before you betrayed me.”

I dump the rest of my water into the fern that stands as a living—or rather dying—testament to her infamous black thumb.

Every plant my sister touches withers faster than our relationship, but I’m not giving up a free living arrangement just because she’s a traitor. Our parents are teachers, and I’d never ask them to fund my pottery fellowship, so I have to save every penny from driving.

There’s a melodramatic sigh and a rustling of cabinets behind me. “Do you want some coffee? I got those beans from the place you like near campus.”

Gritting my teeth, I whip around to see her shoving a cup in my face. She’s wearing an ice blue silk robe that looks like a dress, and her golden hair is a mess on top of her head, but she could make a garbage bag look beautiful.

Gwen’s climbed her way up the corporate ladder by working for some consulting company called Enigma. She’s a badass, except there isn’t enough money in the world for me to admit that out loud.

I might’ve followed her like a duckling to college, but now, I wear my tattoos and corduroy overalls like a badge of honor.

“Is it decaf?” I eye the mossy green cup I made in Ceramics. I’m surprised she picked it out of the cabinet.

She shakes the mug. “No, but is one cup of regular coffee really going to hurt?”

I could tell her that caffeine tricks my body into thinking I’m being chased by a bear, but she’d never understand because the only anxiety she gets is over when her candle-of-the-month subscription arrives.

“Yes, I’ve told you this a thousand times,” I say. “It makes me shaky, and I don’t like the feeling.”

Spinning around, I turn up the volume on the screen that’s showing highlights from last week’s game. Rhode had a shutout, which, confusingly enough, is not about shutting anyone out of the room. It’s apparently a big deal since the announcers won’t stop talking about it post-game.

“Is that Rhode Tremblay?” Gwen sighs. “I could literally stare at him all day. Why did I have to find out from Isaac that you were dating him? That’s huge news. You should’ve told me. How’d you even meet?”

“I’m not telling you shit anymore now that you broke my trust,” I snap, hating that we have the same taste in men.

“So, you’re actually dating Rhode Tremblay? The Wall of Steel?”

“Can you stop referring to him by his first and last name?” I deflect.

The fridge opens. “I’m just surprised. You hate sports. You always complained about going to my soccer games growing up.’

“Why does everyone think I hate all sports?”

“I just feel like this is something you should’ve told me,” Gwen continues without acknowledging my question. “Also, isn’t he a little old for you?”

She’s right, and after the whole Isaac thing, I really shouldn’t be dating older guys, but like hell am I going to agree with my sister. “He’s thirty-three. That’s not that old. If he lives to be a hundred and five, he’s only lived thirty-one percent of his life. That’s nothing.”

“Yeah, but you’re twenty-two. I mean, you’re in completely different places in life.”

“I’m done talking about this with you.”

She lowers the cup, eyes glistening. “Nina, please, I’m trying here, okay? I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry for everything, but I don’t know what else to do. I’ve apologized a million times. Why can’t we at least try to be friends again?”

“You’re not my friend. You’re my sister.”

“I can be both.”

Silence wedges itself between us. The gap in our relationship is so wide that it has no trouble fitting.

“No, you can’t, Gwendolyn. You fucked the guy I lost my virginity to. Then I found out last week that you’ve been secretly dating him behind my back for an entire year. Do you want me to say that I’m fine with you sleeping with Isaac? Because that’d be a lie.”

She throws out her hands. Coffee spills from her mug. “Really, Nina? You ended things with Isaac over two and a half years ago. Two years. You’ve been with other people. It’s not like either of us cheated.”

“Yeah, except I just found out you were secretly dating him last week,” I parrot. “Give me a minute to process that, at least.”

“We waited six months before anything happened.”

“That doesn’t—”

She cuts me off. “And you never told me you lost your virginity to him because you don’t tell me anything. You said the only reason you dated him was because you liked guys in tweed vests. How was I supposed to know you were in love with him?”

Looking back, I can see what I thought was love was really infatuation, but sometimes, when I’m sucked into a particularly dark hole, I can’t help but wonder what Gwen has that made me not enough. That niggling thought pokes holes in my self-confidence, but I’m trying to put it behind me.

“That doesn’t matter.” I stand so fast I almost knock over my cup of water. “It’s not even about that. It’s about the fact that you went behind my back and tried to hide this from me. Do you know how awful that makes me feel? If you had told me you liked him, I probably would’ve been okay with it. Instead, I had to walk in on you sucking him off in the living room last week,” I shout. “It’s practically incest.”

She rolls her eyes. “It’s not incest.”

“It should be!”

Her green eyes spark with anger, giving them an eerie glow. “Please, you never would’ve been okay with us being together. That’s why we kept it a secret. You’ve spent your whole life hating me. This isn’t something new.”

I ignore that last comment because there isn’t a big enough suitcase to fit that emotional baggage. It’s not hatred I feel for Gwen. It’s a long-standing envy that’s the curse of a younger sister.

Confidence is woven into her DNA, while anxiety is embedded in mine. Gwen blinds everyone when she walks into a room. I don’t want to be the type of woman who dims another girl’s sparkle, but she shines so bright that no one can even see me. It’s like she has glitter running through her veins.

“Why did it have to be Isaac?” I mumble. “You could’ve had literally anyone else. Why him?”

“I don’t know, Nina.” She rubs her hands over her face. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable by listing out all the things I like. We got to talking last year when he dropped off your stuff, but you’re right. We should’ve talked to you first. It just sort of happened.”

“Oh, really?” I sneer. “So, Isaac’s dick just accidentally slipped inside your mouth? Nice. I’m so sorry your chemistry was just so explosive that you couldn’t control yourselves.”

“Nina, just listen—”

“No,” I interrupt. “That’s such bullshit. You don’t ‘accidentally’ sleep with your sister’s ex. That’s something you think about, and you willingly chose to do this to me, so don’t act like this was out of your control. You chose him over me, and I can’t forgive you for that.”

“You know it’s not like that at all. I like him, but I love you, Nina.” Her face falls, and guilt bubbles inside me because I love my sister. I really do, despite our tangled relationship, except I never tell her I love her.

“Look,” I relent, grabbing my phone. “Let’s not do this. I’m tired of fighting, and I need to work on securing a donation for my ceramics class project.”

“How’s that coming, by the way? Are you ready for your speech?”

“No. You know I hate public speaking, but I still have four months to prepare, so I’ll be fine. I’m always fine.”

I pull out my phone, needing a distraction, but then I see a text on the screen. My heart pounds relentlessly when I read the message.

It’s best to fade into the periphery of his life, so I turn off my phone and leave him on read.