WHEN I WOKE up this morning, picking Stassie and Russ up from a cute, little coffee shop date seemed about as likely as me becoming a figure skater, yet here I am.
It takes thirty seconds for the panic to set in. The little line between her eyebrows appears, like it does every time she’s deep in thought. “I can be hard work, Nate,” she blurts out with a shaky voice. “I know you think Aaron walks all over me, but he doesn’t. Sometimes we full-on argue in the middle of the rink.”
Reaching toward her, I tuck her hair behind her ear, cupping her cheek gently. “Why are you telling me you’re hard work like I don’t already know?”
The line deepens, but a small laugh slips out. For me, Monday started great, went shitty, and now it sort of seems to be ending great. I don’t know where my offer came from; I think I’ve just reached my limit of seeing her upset.
I’m not convinced I’ll be any good, but I won’t drop her, and that’s what she needs.
“You don’t understand what you’re signing yourself up for.” She nuzzles into my hand and lets out a sigh. “What if you can’t stand me when we’re done?”
“Anastasia, me not liking you in eight weeks is not a concern you need to have. But just know, if I’m ever down a guy I’ll be expecting you to step up to play hockey. I think your hostility would be a great addition to the team.”
I manage to catch the arm that flings in my direction and give it a gentle tug until Stas is climbing over the console to straddle my lap. “When you get out of this car, we’re partners, and I’m not going to be able to touch you until January. If I’d known this morning would be the last time I could kiss you, I’d have done it better. One last kiss?”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Of course, I’m serious. If you hadn’t been drinking, I’d be asking to fuck you in the backseat. So, a kiss is mild.”
Rolling her eyes, she leans in, stopping an inch from my lips. “Your charm is endless, Hawkins.”
Sinking my hands into her hair, I kiss her with everything I’ve got. It’s a weird moment, where it feels like both the start and end of something, and when her hips roll against me, I don’t know whether to cry or rejoice.
“I’m still allowed to think about you when I jerk off, right?” I ask quickly as she moves back to climb out of the car. “Or is that against the rule?” Please don’t be against the rules.
She actually snorts. Like a little piglet. “I’m fair game if you’re fair game. You’re my go-to. Deal?”
Fuck my life. I nod, unable to speak while my brain paints a very inappropriate image.
The next eight weeks are going to be hell.
By the time I reach home, everyone already knows what is happening because Stassie has texted Sabrina. I called Faulkner from the car; he said he thinks it will work in my favor reputation-wise, and he will design me a regime to stay fit. Figure skating will help contribute to my ice time, so I think he might be pleased with my plan. Only think, not know, because then he called me the most bizarre kid he’s ever had to tolerate and told me to enjoy wearing leggings.
Brin has all the guys around the table in the den, folding pamphlets for the theater society’s rendition of Hamilton. It makes it easier to tell everyone the whole story simultaneously but makes the laughter at my expense ten times louder.
“Since you’re so good at helping other people with their stuff, take a seat.” She hands me a huge pile of papers to fold and points to the chair beside Mattie. “Can’t wait to see your ass in tights, Hawkins.”
“I’m more worried about him getting a boner,” Henry adds, concentrating on getting his pamphlet edges straight. “He’s like a horny little dog around Stassie.”
“Gee, thanks. Nah, there will be no funny business. She wants to make sure she’s not distracted. Just friends.”
The laughing starts again; I imagine there’s going to be a lot of laughing at my expense for the next two months.
THE FIRST DISCOVERY of this little figure skating experience is that my Tuesday class schedule aligns with Anastasia’s and we both finish at two p.m. We’re both supposed to be studying, but we’ve just arrived at Maple Hills Mall.
You know in a movie when there’s a red button, but nobody is allowed to touch it, and you scream at the TV when someone inevitably does? Anastasia is my red button. I know I shouldn’t touch her, but I want to, and she’ll scream at me if I do.
She looks so pretty right now, passionately explaining the importance of skating in the right outfit. “Stop staring at my lips and pay attention,” she drawls.
“I am paying attention. I still don’t see why I can’t wear sweatpants.”
“You just can’t, okay? We’re buying leggings.”
So pretty. “Yes, Ma’am.”
The first store doesn’t have anything for men, the second doesn’t have anything that goes over my thighs, but the third is perfect.
“What about these?” she asks, holding up a pair in my size.
“They’re leopard print, Anastasia.”
“I can see that. What about them?”
Quirking my eyebrow, I lean against the rack. “I mean, is them being leopard print not enough of an answer? Why don’t we rule out all animal print to save time.”
As she’s about to argue, we’re interrupted by my ringing phone.
Dad. Reject.
Putting my phone back in my pocket, she holds up another pair when I look at her. “So that’s a no to the zebra print?”
“Correct.”
“Are you absolutely sure? These will make your thighs look great.”
“If you want to see my thighs, I’ll skate in my Calvin’s. Problem solved. Food?” She doesn’t even bother responding. “I’ll take that as a no then.”
Searching through a sea of black, non–animal print options, I find a handful in my size. She’s all grumbles and scowls as I pay for my “boring” outfits, and we exit the store.
I reach for her hand, immediately stopping myself and styling it into a stretch. Walking in silence toward the food court, I can see something bothering her by the unsettled look on her face. Just as I’m about to ask her, my phone rings again.
Dad. Reject.
We grab a table away from other people, where it’s quieter, and she still has the same look.
“What’s on your mind, grumpy?”
“The NHL.”
Unexpected. “I’m all for diversity in sport, Stas, but I think you’re a bit small to be a hockey player,” I tease. “Why are you thinking about the NHL?”
“I’m just thinking about how peaceful my senior year will be, since you’re going to Canada to fight moose or whatever.” She shrugs and forces a smile. “It’s silly; forget it.”
“I’m impressed you think I can fight a moose, but I’m not sure they tend to frequent downtown Vancouver.” I laugh. “I’m not sure you know this, but there are flights to Vancouver from LA. If you ever wanted to disturb your peace a little and visit.”
She’s about to answer and my fucking phone starts ringing again. Dad again. I reject it, again. She drags a hand through her hair and sighs. “You can answer your phone in front of me.”
“I know.”
“I’m not going to freak out if you have a conversation with another girl.” She puts her elbows on the table and rests her head against her hands. “Just because you can’t fuck me doesn’t mean you can’t fuck anyone.”
Rolling my eyes, I push my phone across the table. “Three-Nine-Nine-Three.”
Immediately shaking her head, she tries to push the phone back to me. “Nathan, I don’t ne—”
I type the numbers myself, since she apparently wants to respect my privacy. I watch her fight herself before her eyes finally look at my phone screen, and she sees the word Dad littering my call log over and over. “It’s complicated.”
“Oh, okay, well, uh,” she splutters. “I do mean it, by the way. Like, I don’t expect you to be celibate for two months.”
Snorting, I watch her eyes widen, uncertain. “We’re going to be spending so much time together, Anastasia. I’m about to cockblock you at every available opportunity. You can do what you want, obviously. But good luck trying to fuck someone that’s not me.”
Her eyes brighten, heat flushing her cheeks instantly. “Is that supposed to be endearing? Feels a little possessive and toxic.”
The corner of my mouth tugs up, loving that this is my day now. “Don’t give me that shit. I’ve seen what you have on your smutty bookshelf.” Her mouth falls open. “Now, what do you want to eat?”
“I’m good. I’ll eat when I get home, but you get whatever.”
“You got something against eating out?”
“No, but I need to stick to my diet.”
“Diet?” It’s clear to anyone who spends time with Anastasia that she has a complicated relationship with food. I swear half the time her bad moods are because she’s hungry.
“Aaron and I have a food plan. I do the food prep and stuff through the week; we have to be organized with it.”
“It’s cool you’re so disciplined,” I say carefully. “Nutrition is part of my course, so I do a lot on this kinda stuff. I’d love to look at your food plan if you’re cool with that?”
Reaching into her bag, she pulls out my enemy: her planner. She flicks through the pages until she finds a piece of paper, handing it to me. “Knock yourself out.”
Oh fuck. Vegetables. Vegetables. A small amount of protein. Vegetables. I get my phone and bring up the calculator, roughly working out the numbers. “Who designed this meal plan?”
“Aaron.”
The answer’s an unsurprising yet still disappointing one. For once, I’m speechless. My feelings about Aaron Carlisle are understandably not great and I feel like I’ve earned that. But this is fucking weird. He either has no idea what he’s doing when it comes to nutrition or does this on purpose. “Anastasia, you are massively undereating. You’re not eating enough, not even close.”
I’m trying not to seem like I’m telling her off or belittling her; this isn’t her fault. She takes the paper back, running her eyes across the page. “What do you mean?”
“Your body burns calories just by you being alive. So you need to fuel your body to live. Someone who burns as many calories as you do, through skating and strength training, needs to eat even more to make sure your muscles recover.”
“I’m fine.”
“Not eating enough makes you more prone to injury and serious health problems. Have you always bruised as badly as you do now?”
Her mind must be going a mile a minute. She’s frozen on the spot, clearly trying to take in what I’m saying. “Maybe? I don’t know.”
I noticed a while ago she’s always covered in bruises. I put it down to falls and stuff, but now I’ve seen them close, I know how bad they are.
“Bruising badly can be a sign of nutrient deficiency. Are you tired a lot? Anxious? Irritable for no reason? Changes to your menstrual cycle?”
“Jesus Christ, Nate.” She fumes, looking around us to make sure no one is listening. She lowers her voice. “I’m tired, anxious, and irritable because I work hard. Surely you know better than anyone that it comes with the job.”
“Stas…”
“And as far as my menstrual cycle is concerned, which is none of your fucking business, I’m on birth control that fully stops it. I haven’t had one in years.”
She folds her arms across her chest and sits back in her seat. Defiance, annoyance, a sliver of uncertainty. It isn’t my intention to upset her, but I’m also not going to let her eat like this.
“There are hardly any carbs in this plan.”
“So?”
“You need carbs, Stassie. I’m not asking you to fill yourself on junk food, but you need to eat more calories, baby. I can write you a new plan; we’ll give them both to Brady and see which she prefers.”
“Fine.” She shrugs. “Whatever.”
“Did Ryan look at your meal plan?”
Her eyebrows furrow together. “What, no? Why?”
Thinking back to the video call a month ago, I’ve been meaning to bring up what Ryan said but haven’t had a chance after everything that’s happened. “Ryan said once that Aaron was trying to control what you ate.”
She rolls her eyes. “Ignore Ryan. He’d make me eat KFC every night, which is not realistic. I don’t have his superhuman metabolism. Aaron says he struggles to lift me sometimes, it makes Ryan cranky.”
What the fuck. “He said he struggles to lift you?”
“If I don’t stick to the plan, yeah. Sometimes my weight fluctuates a little.”
Dragging my hand down my face, I suppress the anger brewing. The arena sharing situation doesn’t mean only the rink, it also means the gym. I’ve seen Aaron comfortably lift twice Anastasia’s weight. He might not be a big guy, but he is strong. “He’s fucking unhinged, Stas.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“I don’t want to argue about this because it’s not your fault. But the guy is controlling you and showing this to Brady will prove it.”
She huffs, rubbing her temples with her eyes closed. “You’re giving me a headache.”
“It’s because I care.”
“Can you care in a way that isn’t going to cause me tons of problems?”
“We’ll sort it together, I promise.”
Reaching across the table, her hand lands on top of mine, and she squeezes it. “I’m going to get us some food. I’ll be back.”
I try not to focus on the crack in her voice when she says it.
