Page 4 of Melt His Heart

I round the couch and stand in front of my coffee table to sniff the new floral arrangement I picked up at the market the other day. I think I want to get one for the kitchen counter too, maybe from that florist if I ever get the time.

The hot spray of the shower greeting my skin feels amazing. I sigh, running my fingers through my hair. The weight of today falling away almost instantly. After finishing my usual night routine, I flop down onto the mattress. There’s no place like my bed. I grab one of the stuffed animals I brought from home with me. My eyes flutter shut, letting my mind wander, maybe a bit too much because a certain raven-haired hockey player suddenly appears behind my lids.

“Carson,” I whisper to myself. I’m blushing just saying his name! It’s so ridiculous, he’s not that hot. I mean, he’s pretty hot, but I’ve got to stop. I haven’t given any boy a second thought in a very long time, so I don’t know what’s gotten into me or what makes him any different.

I should look up his socials and get it out of my system now. Jumping up, I grab my phone, and of course, a hockey player is easy to internet stalk. I bite my lip as I search his name, there he is in all his glory. The first thing I notice is his age; he’s only three years older than me. Doesn’t act like it though.

I also find tons of articles about his accolades; he was recently awarded MVP in his last season, and these awards go all the way back to his childhood. He’s quite the hockey protege.

“Wow, so not only is he hot, but he’s actually a good athlete, great.” I sigh, clicking on his social media page; there’s photos of him, his family, and of course some of his teammates. There’s only one teammate that’s familiar to me because I always see him and Carson huddled, chatting when I’m getting ready at the rink. They must be pretty close cause there’s posts of just those two together at different outings. But it’s a photo of Carson and a girl that catches my attention. She appears enough times that I shut my phone off and lie back with a deep groan.

So he definitely wasn’t flirting with me.

This is why I would never survive the dating pool.

I’d drown.

Because I can’t even tell if a man is flirting with me or not. Though it wouldn’t matter because we’re not only so different, but even if I did know, I can’t risk having anything distracting me. Especially not someone like him. Honestly, why am I even thinking about this now? I’ve never even been in love or in a relationship.

I don’t know where, how, or when you even begin to fall in love.

And why do we have to fall?

Falling on the ice means death.

I’m jolted out of my thoughts when my phone rings; it’s my parents. I haven’t talked to them since settling in. I answer, smiling to myself.

“Hey, Mom,” I say softly in Korean, and I can hear her disapproval from here.

“You haven’t called. Is everything going ok? Are you eating well?”

I chuckle; she’s always worried I’ll starve and die if she’s not there to feed me. No matter how many years I’ve traveled for skating or how many countries I’ve been to on my own, she always worries. When I was younger, I used to be annoyed by this, but now I find it endearing.

“Yes, Mom, I’m eating fine.” Even though I haven’t had dinner yet tonight.

“That’s good. We miss you so much. We’re so proud of you.”

“I miss you too, Mom.”

Proud of me? Whenever they tell me this, I always wonder if they would be as proud if I didn’t win competitions. I try to tell myself this isn’t true, but I don’t know anything else. Or I wasn’t told otherwise, so it’s what I’ve made myself come to believe. I know my parents love me, but I can’t seem to ever shake this thought.

“How is your training going?” I hear my dad ask. It’s usually all he ever asks me about. My dad has always been very supportive of my skating, probably the most. But sometimes I wish we could talk about other things together. Especially since his health has not been the best in the last few years. I know he just wants me to do well, and it’s important that I make sure they’re both taken care of.

“It’s going fine, Dad,” I mumble, picking off the lint on the stuffed toy I’m hugging.

“That’s good.” My mom replies.

“I’ll send you some things. Send me your address.”

“Mom, please don’t. I don’t need anything. It’s not like I’m staying here.” I croak, but I know she’ll make a fuss, and I’ll end up sending her the address anyway.

“Just send it, please.” She insists.

“Alright. But don’t go too crazy.”

“Ok. Just something for your legs,” she says.

“I’ll let you go now. It’s late there. You should rest.”