Living with Maddie Reyes requires the kind of precision usually reserved for defusing bombs or performing open-heart surgery. Except with significantly more passive-aggressive Post-it notes and a complex shower schedule.
We've developed an unspoken system that would impress military strategists and communicate like two strangers forced to share a prison cell, which isn't far from the truth.
The stuffed otter on her bed has become my nemesis. I swear it judges me with its glassy little eyes every time I accidentally look at Maddie's ass in those yoga pants she sleeps in.
Which is often.
Which is a problem and makes me question everything I thought I knew about myself.
Today at the rink, Coach Marquette has gathered both teams—figure skaters on one side, hockey players on the other.
It looks like an athletic West Side Story, minus the snapping and the murder. Everyone stands in uneasy clusters, eyeing the other team like we're about to be asked to share desserts.
Territorial mammals pretending to be civilized.
"Annual pre-season showcase," Coach announces, clipboard clutched like a weapon. "Donors, scouts, university board members. Each singles skater performs a short pairs routine with a hockey partner. It's a biennial tradition."
She pauses, letting this sink in while the fluorescent lights hum overhead like nervous witnesses.
The hockey guys lumber in looking lost without their armor, and I try to focus on them. Any of them. That one's cute, right? Tall, broad shoulders, the kind of guy I usually go for.
Feel something, I command myself. Feel literally anything.
Nothing. It's like looking at furniture with good bone structure.
"This year," Coach continues, "showcase performances will determine a new team captain."
The words land like stones in still water.
I watch Maddie's spine straighten, her fingers tightening almost imperceptibly on the boards. Her position isn't guaranteed anymore. The throne she's spent so long building suddenly has termites.
"Choose your partners," Coach continues. "Make it work."
The pairing frenzy begins immediately. Maddie moves like a heat-seeking missile toward hockey team captain Derek. Six feet of conventional attractiveness and the personality of wet cardboard.
Ava mentioned him briefly, as Maddie’s boyfriend, showed me a pic—he’s the type of handsome that you immediately forget.
He drapes himself around her like an expensive accessory someone forgot to remove the price tag from. They look like a catalog photo for privilege. His hand rests on her hip with the casual possessiveness of someone marking territory at a party.
"You're the triple axel girl."
I turn to find a guy with artfully messy black hair and the kind of smile that probably gets him out of speeding tickets. He's cute in that non-threatening way that makes mothers trust him with their daughters.
"Chris Nakamura," he says, extending a hand.
"Emily Harper."
"I volunteer as tribute." He grins wider. "Before you end up with Tyler, who has the grace of a caffeinated moose."
I glance at the remaining hockey players. One of them is literally wobbling on his blades like a newborn giraffe discovering gravity. Another seems to be having a quiet argument with his own feet.
"You make a compelling argument."
"I'm a philosophy major. Compelling arguments are my only marketable skill." He's friendly, a little awkward, seems genuinely nice.“Fair warning—I'm better at Kant than skating, but I promise not to drop you or discuss metaphysics mid-routine."
"Deal." I agree to the partnership before my brain can manufacture reasons to refuse and Chris looks relieved.
We shake on it, and I try not to notice Maddie watching us from across the rink.
***
That night, I'm organizing my desk when Maddie storms in.
"This is fucking BULLSHIT," she announces, throwing her bag with enough force to make the otter bounce in protest. "I've been captain for a YEAR. A whole year of my life dedicated to this team, and now one stupid showcase determines everything?"
"Sounds rough," I say, not looking up from my color-coded note cards.
"Don't." She whirls on me, eyes blazing. "Don't you dare act like you don't care. You want it. I can see it in your stupid face every time Coach compliments you."
"My stupid face?" I finally look up. "That's the best you've got? My stupid face?"
"Your... your stupidly talented face!" She's pacing now, like a caged cat. "Coming here with your perfect triple axel and your 'Oh, I'm just here to skate' act. You're trying to take everything I built!"
"Maddie." I put down my cards. "I literally just want to skate, qualify for Nationals and not die during competitions. Your queen bee throne is safe."
"Oh, fuck off," she hissed, all righteous fury and swinging ponytail. "Like you're not thrilled. Little Emily Harper, here to steal everything I've built with your “great talent” and your puppy dog eyes."
"Puppy dog eyes?" I spin in my chair to face her. "That's rich coming from someone who bats her eyelashes at Coach like she's auditioning for a mascara commercial."
"At least I don't throw myself at the first hockey player who shows interest." She's moved closer, hands on her hips. "Chris Nakamura? Really? He's like if vanilla ice cream was a person."
"Jealous?" The word slips out before I can stop it.
"Of what? Your disaster of a partnership?" She laughs, but it's sharp. "Please. Derek actually knows how to lead. Unlike your philosophy major who probably overthinks breathing."
"Right, because Derek's such a prize." I stand up, and suddenly we're too close. "Tell me, does he schedule his cheating around your practices, or does he just not care enough to hide it?"
Her face flushes red. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me. Everyone knows he hooks up with half the sophomore class. But sure, keep pretending he's your perfect boyfriend."
"At least I HAVE a boyfriend." She steps closer, and I can smell her perfume that still doing things to my brain. "What's your excuse? That perfect Emily isn't as straight as she pretends to be?"
The words hit like a slap and my whole body goes rigid. "What?"
"Oh, come on." She laughs, but it's sharp. "The way you look at me? The way you get all tense when I'm near? Classic baby gay panic."
"I'm not… I've only dated guys. Multiple guys."
"Right. And how'd that work out?" She moves even closer, backing me against my desk. "Did any of them make you feel anything? Or were you just going through the motions?"
"Fuck off, Maddie."
"Hit a nerve?" She's so close I can feel her body heat. "It's okay, you know. Very common. College awakening and all that."
"I'm not having any kind of awakening."
"No?" Maddie reaches up, traces a finger along my collar, and my skin burns like she's branding me. "Then why are you shaking?"
Something in me snaps.
I grab her wrists, spin us around, and push her backward. She stumbles, falls onto her bed, and before she can recover I'm over her, pinning her wrists beside her head with probably more force than necessary.
"You talk too fucking much," I hiss.
Her eyes go wide, all that cocky confidence evaporating. We're pressed together from chest to hip, and I can feel her rapid breathing, see her pulse hammering in her throat.
"Emily…"
"What's wrong?" I lean closer, our faces inches apart. "Not so confident now? Where's all that theory about me being gay?"
She tries to move her wrists but I hold firm, and something flashes in her eyes—heat, surprise, something else that makes my stomach flip dangerously. "I was just…"
"What? Teasing? Playing your little games?" I shift my weight and she gasps, actually gasps, and fuck, that sound goes straight through me. "Your boyfriend treats you like furniture, so you pick fights with me because at least it makes you feel something?"
We're both breathing hard, and her face is inches from mine and I can see her pulse racing in her throat and feel her breath on my lips and my entire body is having some kind of system error because this is not… I don't…
Never with girls.
But God, she's so close and her eyes are so dark and her lips are parted and everything in me is screaming to close that gap and…
"Emily." Her voice is barely a whisper.
The sound of my name breaks whatever spell we're under and I scramble backward so fast I nearly fall off the bed.
Maddie sits up slowly, hair messed up, cheeks flushed, looking absolutely wrecked.
We stare at each other across three feet that feels like three miles. My body is still buzzing, skin too tight, heart trying to escape through my ribs.
What the fuck just happened?
