Page 11 of Captured Love

I roll my eyes and feel the distinct urge to grab the bridge of my nose. The headache I thought I stopped from forming is preparing to come back with a vengeance. “Nice of you to join us, Wilder.”

The best way I can describe Wilder walking into the room is to say he sauntered in with his hair still damp from the shower. A cocky grin is plastered on his face, and I can already sense what he’s about to say next. “Don't get your underwear in a twist, Knox. I'm committed.”

I shoot him a look that says I very much doubt it, but I keep my mouth shut. No point in starting another pissing match with him right before practice. At least we don’t have to deal with extra drills because one of us was late.

We change into our practice gear, and just as I’m lacing up my skates, Coach comes back into the locker room.

“Listen up!” Coach Johnson says, commanding the attention of the entire team. Even Wilder, who usually is ready to toss out a joke, stays silent.

“I don’t need to tell you boys how important the next few weeks are. We’re doing well, but we need to continue to do well. If we don’t, you can kiss the playoffs goodbye.”

I scan the room, looking at my teammates. We’ve been here before—this place of uncertainty where one bad game can cost us everything. We always find a way to pull through, but this season feels different. Harder. Could also be that it’s our senior year, but whatever.

“Get your asses on the ice,” Coach finishes. “We’re running systems today.”

The team files out of the locker room, and I hang back for a moment. Blaise notices but doesn’t say anything, just gives mea look that says he’s still thinking about our conversation in the car. I grab my stick and head toward the tunnel.

It’s time to get to work.

5

SELENE

Iadjust the strap of my bookbag and then knock on Isla’s dorm room door. A few seconds later, the door swings open, and Isla gives me a big grin. She’s wearing fuzzy socks, which make me smirk. “Hey, Selene,” she says, stepping aside to let me in. “Thanks for stopping by.”

I’m not surprised she said that. When we hang out at each other’s places, ninety-five percent of the time, we are at my dorm because Isla and her roommate, Tessa, don’t get along.

Isla has tried to keep the peace, but I would have probably ended up getting hauled off to jail if she’d said the things she said about Isla the last time I was in this building. To mock someone for a condition, let alone an invisible illness they can’t control, is cruel. If I hadn’t reminded myself what was at stake if I’d jumped in to help Isla, who did an excellent job defending herself by the way, I might not be on campus right now.

I slip past her into the room, and the first thing I notice is a few textbooks and notebooks scattered on her bed. I move the things out of the way and flop down onto the mattress, pretending I’m one hundred percent relaxed when I’m anything but.

Isla grabs a binder and leans over to place it on her desk so she can sit beside me. She folds her legs underneath herself and gives me a once-over. “How’ve you been holding up?”

“Me? Oh, I’m fantastic,” I say with a grin that I hope looks genuine. “Just living my best life, starring in a new sitcom calledMy Emotions Are a Hot Mess—the ratings are through the roof.”

She snorts out a laugh, and I gotta say, it’s one of my better jokes. “I can imagine. Anything from Knox?”

“Nope and I’m not expecting anything. He can kiss my big ass for all I care.”

Isla rolls her eyes at me. “Your ass isn’t big, but I understand the sentiment.”

I shrug, but I don’t believe her. A lifetime of shrugging off compliments about my body has left me with Olympic-level shoulder strength. Isla means well, but she doesn't understand what it's like to walk around in a body that makes me feel as if I’ll never be good enough.

I glance at her slender frame and quickly look away, feeling the familiar twinge of jealousy mixed with guilt. It’s not Isla’s fault she’s naturally petite, just as it’s not my fault I’m mid-size. I constantly feel as if I’m literally caught in the middle. Still, it’s hard not to compare, especially when every magazine cover and social media feed is filled with girls who look more like her than me.

“So,” Isla says, drawing out the word like she’s stretching dough, “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

Here it comes. The intervention. The moment where she tells me that I’ve been too angsty, too dramatic, too much of a burden as a friend. I brace myself for the blow.

“Don’t freak out,” she adds, which, of course, makes me freak out more.

“Just spit it out,” I say with a small laugh to soften my tone. “Whatever it is, I can take it.”

“Maybe you need to find someone else to date? Or, hell, just have sex with?”

I pause for a moment, shocked that my best friend of over a decade would say something like that. She’s serious. Maybe I am rubbing off on her in more ways than I thought. “You’re suggesting a rebound?”

She nods, her ponytail bobbing with enthusiasm. “Or even just a distraction.”

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