Page 28 of Breaking the Ice

She’s frozen for a second, and I use that moment of shock to cup her face and part her lips with my tongue. Her body catches up, melting into mine, and then her hands are everywhere—in my hair, at the nape of my neck, skimming my back.

I pour everything I’m feeling into this kiss, because I want her to know that she’s hot. I don’t hide that I want her. When she moans in my mouth, I’m pretty sure she gets the memo.

The kiss doesn’t end so much as subside. Smaller and smaller tastes of her, little drags of my lips, until finally I kiss her on her forehead and step away, clearing my throat.

“None of that, okay?” My voice is scratchy, like I forgot how to speak. After that, maybe I did. “Don’t say that you’re anything less than gorgeous.”

“Okay.” She nods, her eyes wide. “But I did start out as a music performance major. And I was told that I didn’t have the body type for it.” She grimaces, and my fists clench involuntarily. I want to punch whoever said that. “That’s why I switched to music education and ended up at Harrison.”

“Oh. I feel like an idiot for saying that, about wasting your talent. I’m sorry. If you haven’t noticed, dumb shit comes out of my mouth all the time.”

With a small smile, she links her arm through mine and turns me back towards O’Bryan’s. “I’m aware. I also have a bit of a fiery temper to match the hair.” She tosses her long waves over her shoulder. “So, I’m sorry, too. Wanna get back to Sing-O before we miss any more clues?”

“Absolutely.” I lead the way into the restaurant and pull out her chair for her to sit.

Isabella doesn’t say anything about the kiss the rest of the night. But she also doesn’t mention that we are just friends anymore, either. I can’t stop thinking about how her lips felt against mine, and it feels like progress.

Chapter

Twelve

ISABELLA

Dad: Can you help tonight?

Isabella: I really don’t have time. It’s tech week.

Dad: I signed you up before I knew your schedule.

Dad: I’m desperate. And you’re a good skater.

Isabella: I was passable. Good is a stretch. Not sure I even remember how.

Dad: It’s like riding a bike.

Dad: If not for me, do it for the kids. 6:30 tonight?

Isabella: Fine, I’ll stop by after rehearsal. But can you bring me dinner?

Dad: Sure. Thanks.

Tech Week gives a whole new meaning to exhaustion. I practically live at the Wren Auditorium, barely dragging myself home by midnight every night to sleep and then waking up early to finish any homework for the day. Rinse and repeat until performances start on Friday.

Could there have been a worse time for my dad to sign me up to help with a hockey clinic? It’s a cute tradition, and something I remember doing in high school. They bring in little kids from peewee leagues and teach them fundamentals—skating and stick handling, passing, defense. I’m not a great skater, but I know enough to teach the basics. If it weren’t Tech Week, I wouldn’t mind.

As is, I’m sneaking off the stage, wrestling myself into a pair of leggings, and practically jogging across campus. The clinic started a little bit ago, so I missed the beginning. At least it’s over my dinner break, so I’m not skipping too much rehearsal, although I’m starving.

I head into the hockey arena, taking in the familiar smell of the ice. I haven’t skated in years. My dad taught me as soon as I could walk, and when I was little, I tried my best. I wanted to please him and find common ground. But I had no interest in playing hockey, unlike my older step-brothers, and he just didn’t know how to relate to a daughter. After a few years of mediocre figure skating performances, I gave up the ice for theater and haven’t looked back.

But being here, I’m swarmed with memories. My breath catches in my throat. Hustling through the seats, I stand with my palms pressed against the glass, watching. Hockey players of all sizes and ages cover the ice, and they definitely don’t need me. I’m about to turn on my heel and go back to the theater where I’m comfortable when someone puts a hand on my arm.

“You made it.” My dad smiles down at me. “I know you’re busy, so thanks.”

“Oh, um, yeah.” I wish I knew what to say to him. I clear my throat. “How can I help?”

He holds up a familiar pair of white skates that I haven’t seen since high school. “You’re going to need these.”

“Where were they?” I had almost forgotten I owned skates. It seemed like a waste of money, but my dad kept buying them for me as my feet grew, even once I told him I was done with competitive skating.