Page 45 of The Bad Boy Rule

For a brief moment, I’m stunned into silence. Holy shit, apparently, this is the leader of hell’s version of apep talk.

Even so, I suck in a breath and push off the ice, standing. He’s not wrong.

“You can do it, but you have to get out of your head, or you’re going to end up really fucking injuring yourself, and that move or any move is going to be completely off the table. It’s the mental that’s the problem. Take a breath, recenter, and then do it again without you shit-talking yourself while you’re trying to accomplish it,” Saint says matter-of-factly, unbothered.

If I hadn’t spent the last couple of weeks getting to know him, against my will or not, I’d think it to be true, but I see the flare of something in his eyes. Something that feels a lot like concern.

“Are you…worriedabout me, Saint?” I taunt, skating closer. “That’s not veryclichébad boy of you.”

His lip tugs upward.

Unsurprisingly, he doubles down. In a heartbeat, he’s in front of me, toe to toe, so close that I worry he might actually hear the erratic pulsing of my heart.

He leans closer, gaze dropping to my lips before he murmurs, “Nah, just pretty inconvenient if you break a limb duringmyice time.”

TWENTY-TWO

SAINT

Lennon grins, her rosy lips spreading wide and revealing a perfect row of teeth. “Mmm… well, I do love inconveniencing you.”

“Quit stalling,” I huff, nodding toward the ice. “Let’s go. You can talk shit once you land that jump.”

There are a lot of things about the last few minutes that I should immediately put a stop to. Like that I was, in fact, worried about her because she was going to fucking kill herself.

I keep telling myself it’s just because I couldn’t take the tears, but it’s bullshit.

The truth is I didn’t want to see her get hurt, especially not from punishing herself. I recognized in her the same thing that I do to myself, pushing my body until it’s ready to break to escape whatever fucking demon of the day I’m running from. Fucked-up recognizes fucked-up.

That’s the truth, and I’m never admitting it again, not even to myself.

Second of all, I should be practicing. Running drills. Working on my endurance. Shooting pucks.

But no, instead, I’m watching Golden Girl twirl around in her pink, frilly fucking skirt because I can’t stop. Because as much as I goad her, as much shit as I talk to get a rise out of her, she’s fucking incredible. She glides across the ice with an air of effortlessness that I’m so envious of I’m burning from the inside out.

A body like mine could never, but her small, lithe frame is graceful and lithe.

I don’t know shit about figure skating, but what I do know is how it feels to hit the ice repeatedly. The shit fucking hurts. It leaves you black and blue, every muscle in your body screaming for relief.

I watch as she tries again… and eats shit.

“Goddamnit,” she groans, peeling herself off the ice, her face tight and full of frustration.

“Again.”

Her throat bobs as she stares over at me, a beat passing like she’s questioning herself whether she’s actually going to quit or not.

Then she exhales, nodding.

Good girl.

It takes her three tries, painful ones to watch, but finally…

“Holy shit. I-I fucking did it!” she says between pants, her cheeks red from exertion. “I actually did it. I mean, my landing was shit, but I did it.”

I roll my lips together. “Not going to say I told you so, but I to?—”

She launches forward, slapping her hand over my lips, silencing me. “I don’t need to hear your ‘told you so,’ ass.” Her lips are curved in a small smile. “But… thank you, for your weird pep talk and, you know, not being worried.”

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