Revolve (Off the Ice #3)

by Bal Khabra

Nothing has been in my control since that fall, not this fractured life, not the anger, not even the way my chest tightens whenever I catch sight of my skates.

But after the accident, something harsh ripped open my chest and made a home there.

“Hey. Hey, what’s wrong?” Dylan. My face must be pale, sweaty, and contorted. And Dylan fucking Donovan is the one to find me like this. If I could cut a hole in this ice and fall in, I would.

“Breathe. Talk to me, Sierra,” he says. So gently, so carefully, like he thinks I’ll shatter.

The gate’s metal hook must be digging into his back, but he still doesn’t let go. Doesn’t let me feel the absence of his touch. Instead, he pulls me in, his legs bracketing mine in a protective cocoon. Then he pulls me in so my back rests against his chest.

“Focus on how my chest moves. Match my breaths, Sierra.” His deep voice grounds me like gravity.

I CANNOT

The other sensations flood from my body to welcome whatever the hell this one is. Something familiar, yet so foreign.

No one wants to be stuck mending something they didn’t break.

But when I try to move, his hold tightens. I hate how much my body likes it. “We still have one more. Name one thing you’re proud of yourself for today.”

“Sierra, I’m proud of you for getting on this ice today, and even on late nights when you shouldn’t be. And I’m proud of you for accepting my help.”

I am gone

“Nice socks,” he whispers. “They’re good luck,” I defend. He hums in amusement

“Thanks.” It comes out breathless. His lips quirk. “Didn’t think that word existed in your vocabulary.” I roll my eyes. “Shut up.” This time, his laugh booms, nearly making me smile. “There she is.”

“Are you serious? You looked like you were in pain.” I still am. “I’m not your responsibility, Dylan.” “I never said you were.”

“I think you’re a sadist,” I say. “I’m flattered,” Summer says,

Kilner: My office. Tomorrow. Dylan: Can’t you just tell me what it’s about now? Suspense gives me hives. Kilner: Good. Itch all night.

Without skates, I’m reminded just how much shorter she is than me.

“Is claustrophobia your kink? It’s the second time you’ve dragged me into a tight space.”

She guffaws. “There is no way I’m going anywhere near your face.” “Why not? I’ve been told it’s very nice.”

“Don’t say sorry to me, Sierra. I don’t need it.” “What was that kiss for, then?” I shrug. “I just like seeing you squirm.”

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

That’s why alcohol has helped me piece things back together, so I could always be the Dylan they wanted—the one who never adds to the weight they’re already carrying.

“Have I told you how young you look lately?” The smirk is loud in his voice. I peek over my shoulder to find Dylan leaning with one hand against the threshold. “Sit your ass down, Donovan,”

“You know what I mean. You could never keep up with me.” “Oh yeah? You want to test out my stamina, princess?” “Dylan,” Coach scolds,

“Shouldn’t have said that, Sierra. I’m dying to see what one of your threats entails.” “You don’t want to find out,” I say.

He’s wearing a T-shirt with Summer’s and my faces on it. “What’s up with the shirt? Are you starting a cult?” “More like a fan club,” he replies, still grinning. “We’ve got invitations!”

It’s hard to feel grateful for something I didn’t ask for,

Kian—yeah, he followed me—asked if I’d hold his hair back if he was throwing up in a toilet bowl. His hair is barely past his ears.

Then, like someone lifting noise-canceling headphones, she comes into focus. Black hair, green eyes, bold red lips.

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.

She finds an empty couch by the window and plops down in relief. I collapse on the cushion right beside her, and she goes rigid.

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

“Is that like your bat signal or something? Are your pants going to fly off?” “I just said hi. You’re the one who wants my pants to come off.”

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

Sierra lets the warm alcohol trickle from her mouth to mine, the bitter sweetness spreading on my tongue.

I know then that I’d never have a sip on my own if I could taste it like this forever.

long fingers gripping my waist, his rough voice, his Adam’s apple bobbing when he swallowed the alcohol from my mouth.

I would die

“Last-ditch effort?” Dylan’s deep voice cuts through my thoughts, yanking me back to the present. “I heard he has gonorrhea.” “I’ll be sure to remember that when I’m having sex with him during our long program.” He snorts. “I doubt he’d last that long.”

“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.”

He’s still smug as hell. I kind of want to deck him in the face.

“Son. Best skater she’s ever seen. Ridiculously handsome. I couldn’t really keep track.”

Worst of all, he’s wearing glasses. Black brow line framed and devastating. What kind of sick optometrist would approve of this?

“Now you want me? The sloppy footwork hockey player? I’m no one’s second choice, princess.”

“Oh yeah? Are you allergic to hockey players or something?” he mocks. “I’m allergic to your cocky attitude.”

Then he tilts his head. “I don’t think I like your hostility. Ask me again.”

Asshole just called me frigid. “Be my partner,” I grit out. “Nicely, Sierra.”

“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.

Understandable since we spent the first five minutes of practice elbowing each other out of the way as we tried to get through the gate and onto the ice first. I won, obviously.

He’s bulkier, his shoulders are broader, and his arms might be bigger than my thighs, and that’s saying something, because I’ve got strong thighs.

“Sounds like a prison sentence,” Dylan mutters. “I’m sure you’ve been handcuffed before.” He lets out a low chuckle. “Only to my bed.”

“You’re not wearing gloves,” I note. “Your hands are cold.” “Are they? I don’t usually hold the guys’ hands during hockey practice.”