Revolve (Off the Ice #3)

by Bal Khabra

For anyone who’s had to put themselves back together, even when the pieces no longer fit.

“It doesn’t have to be that way. You can forge your own path, as long as you do it with a little self-respect.”

“You can look, but you’re going to have to be a little nicer if you want to touch.” “Why? Am I too much to handle? Never had a girl that could put a skate to your throat?” His dimple appears. A fucking dimple. “Never, but I think I’d enjoy anything you’d do to me.”

He’s like a roller coaster you know you shouldn’t get on, but you do it anyway.

He’s not wrong, but I’d never admit it. Telling a man he’s right? Yeah, hell no.

“Thought so.” I smirk. “Maybe if I toss a puck on the ice, you can chase after it like a good boy.” A glint returns to his eyes. “Is that what you want? For me to be a good boy?”

The beginnings of a smirk form on my lips. “Sierra, huh?” She freezes, and her eyes widen. But then that tiny fire sparks when she looks at me. “Dylan, huh?”

“I’m flattered.” “Don’t be,” she says. “I’ll bruise your fragile ego.” “You’d do a lot more damage than just a bruise, baby.” She raises a brow. “Are you flirting with me?” “Yes.” I grin. “Is it working?”

“See you around, Romanova.” “Walk into traffic, Donovan,” she says in a singsong voice, tossing a razor-edged grin over her shoulder.

“Who do we hate?” My skin prickles with awareness. “No one,” I mutter. Dylan’s low rumble sounds too close to me “Good. I don’t like someone else stealing your attention.”

“You’re the one showing up everywhere I am, Romanova. If you want me, just say the word. We can cut the whole cat-and-mouse thing.” “Am I supposed to be the mouse in that analogy?” “Definitely the cat. But that’s how I like it. Claws and all.” He winks. He actually fucking winks at me.

“You should probably work on that. Still sloppy,” I needle. When he smiles this time, it’s cocky as hell. “Think you can keep up with me, firefly?”

The other thing I can’t seem to get off my mind is Sierra. Any other scenario, and we’d be in the back seat of my car in five seconds flat. But she looks at me like she wants me dead. It’s kind of fucked up how much that turns me on.

The silence isn’t just the absence of sound. It’s a living thing, swollen with the weight of quiet sobs muffled into tear-soaked pillows and words that have echoed in my mind for months.

I let it take over, because I’d choose anger over my tears any day.

I let her drag me wherever she wants. It’s a thrill I haven’t felt since she yelled at me at that party.

“Asshole,” she mutters, slipping out of the cramped space. “Brat,” I shoot back.

I’m in a nightmare, and Dylan Donovan is my sleep paralysis demon.

There’s no telling why I walk over to her, but I’ve stopped trying to understand the shit I do when I see her.

“Can’t leave me alone?” she says, irritation lacing her words. “Incapable of it,” I say.

I don’t know why, but the thought of her leaving makes my solar plexus ache.

She’s smooth as silk and pretty as sin.

“Should’ve known you don’t do what you’re told.” “What can I say? I like to be punished.” “How submissive of you,” I say dryly. “Yeah? Are you into that? Because I could be, depending on the reward.”

Worst of all, he’s wearing glasses. Black brow line framed and devastating.

“I’ll see you on the ice, princess.” The nickname grates my ears. “Asshole,” I mutter. “Brat,” he says, and then his bedroom door closes.

“So, why does your mom think you’re some sweet angel?” His fingers graze my thigh, and I flinch, quickly clearing my throat. “Because I am.” “The only sweet thing about you is the alcohol I tasted from your lips, Sierra,” he says, his tone too casual. “Everything else is hot and scorching.” “Like the sun?” “Like hell.” My gaze cuts into his. “You would know.”

“No one likes an angry girl.” “I do.”

“Having an attitude versus an opinion about something you do professionally are two different things. I think you’ve been around weak people who can’t listen to a smart woman without making it a dick-measuring contest.”

“I like it when you have your way with me, Romanova.”

I glance at Dylan, then curse myself for doing it. He’s so quiet it tricks my brain into thinking he’s even more attractive than he already is. Something about him not running his mouth does it for me.

“Can’t you just say thank you and not make this weird?” I mutter. “No way. You knit me gloves and you think you’re going to get off easy?” he says. “Miss Rot in Hell but Do It With a Pair of Gloves So Your Hands Don’t Get Cold.”

The hum of a guitar and a deep voice serenade us while we hold each other like we’re not two complicated people with bad luck. Like we’re just two college kids, dancing on a porch.

Sierra: Why is your entire hockey team following me on social media? Dylan: Because they’re nosy idiots. Sierra: Aw, you talk about me? Dylan: No. I think about you. Sierra: You’re thinking? Big day for you then. Dylan: Brat. Sierra: Asshole.

My lips brush right against her ear, her cold skin against my mouth. “I’m so proud of you, baby.” A slight tremor runs through her. “Me too,” she whispers.

“If you’re mad, I’ll let you punch me,” I say, breaking the silence in the car. That gets her to look at me. I love when she looks at me. “In the face?” she asks. “My arm. You wouldn’t like it if you ruined all this.” I point to my face.

“I want to figure out if whatever the fuck I’m feeling when I’m this close to you is real or just in my head.” She bristles. “How do you feel?” “Like I’m losing my mind.”

“So, this is a onetime, casual kiss?” “Casual,” I repeat, even though that word burns my esophagus. She leans in, close enough that I smell the fruity drink on her breath. “And platonic?” “So platonic,” I whisper.

The kiss silences every ache in my body. If I thought I was losing my mind before, it’s eviscerated now. I could walk on water.

How is it possible that I want to wring his throat, but also kiss it?

I memorize the way he tastes, and the way he makes me feel when I’m in his arms. Like I’m something he wants to keep. Something precious. I let myself believe someone’s chosen me for once.

My partner has a bad habit of running off, and at this point, I’m one chase away from investing in handcuffs.

“Your reaction doesn’t mean you aren’t healing. You’ve gotten yourself all the way here.” I pause, my thumb brushing gently against her temple. “And if you need my hand to help you make it the rest of the way, I’ll be here. But this is all you, Sierra. It always has been.”

“I’ve never seen someone who’s threatened to slit my throat blush this much.”

“You’re so brave.” Another kiss. “So pretty.” Another one. “So fucking mean it makes me hard.”

“You are so much more than your scars.” He presses a kiss on the scar on my head. “So much more.”

“You’re not his to kiss,” he says. I chuckle. “And I’m yours?” “If you want to be.”

“You only have to look at me and I’ll give everything to you, Sierra.”

I put her hand on my chest, the steady thrum of my heart against her palm. She doesn’t hesitate as she takes my hand to do the same. It’s in moments like these where I see her. Not for the darkness she thinks surrounds her, but for the girl that glows. Like a firefly.

“Asshole,” I mutter. “Brat,” he says.

She smiles then. It nearly kills me. There she is again. The girl with the soft, bruised heart.