Page 26 of The Season
I could let go of her face—I should, really—but I find my thumb lightly tracing the line of her jaw, momentarily entranced by the smooth, warm skin beneath my fingertips, so at odds with the icy air around us.
“Keep them shut,” I remind her, even though she’s making no move to open them. She’s not pulling away from me either, but that doesn’t stop the small voice of reason—deeply buried in my head, apparently—from telling me that I’m not acting appropriately here.
“So, you were a football star?” I ask her.
She huffs out a laugh, then winces when her smile pulls at her split lip. “Definitely not a star,” she gives a self-deprecating laugh. “It was back in high school, and I was probably the worst player on the team. Spent most of the time benched. Still managed to take a ball to the head each time we hit the field, though. Not sure what that says about me.”
I find my chest tightening at her words, because I’ve trained enough—and with enough people—to know exactly what that says about her.
She’s not a natural athlete. She’s not one of those people brimming with raw talent, waiting for some trainer to polish them up and send her on her way to stardom.
But she has grit. She’s the sort of person who will show up each day, even when she knows it’s going to hurt. The sort who will give it her all, if she’s given a chance.
Those have always been my favorite types of athletes to train.
“Okay, open your eyes,” I say, my voice rough.
She blinks them open, staring directly into my own as I watch her dilated pupils constrict against the sudden brightness.
“Your eyes are the same color as the clouds,” she murmurs, staring at me intently.
We’re close enough that I can feel the warmth of her breath on my face, can see the little flecks of amber and gold scattered like starbursts in her irises. Heat rushes through me at her words, at the husky sound of her voice, at the feel of her breath on my lips, and those eyes locked with my own. Fire races down my spine, through my limbs, scorching with such intensity, I almost expect to see the snow melting around us.
I drop my hand, suddenly feeling like the touch of her skin beneath my fingertips is too much.
“You don’t seem concussed,” I croak out, swallowing around the sudden dryness in my throat. “It’s not a foolproof test, but it’s a good indication…”
“Cool. I know.” She drops her gaze, her windburned cheeks pinkening. “Thanks.”
“Do you want to see if you can stand now?” I ask, scrambling for some semblance of composure. For the professionalism I seemed to have completely disregarded ever since Lily crashed. Before then, if I’m being honest.
“Sure.” Lily gives me a wobbly smile as I rise to my feet.
I find myself extending my hand out to her, taking her cold, bare fingers in my own, pulling her toward me as I help her to her feet. She winces, rolling her shoulders and shuffling on her feet, but doesn’t release my hand.
“Thanks,” she says again. She doesn’t drop her gaze, and for a long, charged moment, we’re standing face to face, her hand clasped in my own with only a few inches of icy air between us.
Close enough that our breaths mingle in wispy clouds between us.
I drop her hand, and take a quick step back, half sliding down the steep incline. “Can you walk?” My voice sounds rougher than I intend. Almost brusque. I tilt my chin toward the base of Jupiter lift. “Think you can make it?”
Her expression shutters, and she tucks her gloveless hand into her pocket before bending to scoop up her board with her other hand. She winces with the movement, and I internally berate myself, because the least I could do is carry her board—it’s what I would do for any injured student. But when I offer to take the board from her, she shakes her head, her bloodied lips thinning.
“I’ve got it,” she rasps. “And yah. I think I can walk just fine.”
By the time we’re almost at the base of the lift, the rest of the class is making it down the mountain, the once-unmarred powder marked with irregular lines from their turns.
I cast a glance over my shoulder to where Lily is trudging behind, one end of her board dragging in the snow. I should be annoyed at her. After all, if she hadn’t wiped out so spectacularly, I would be up there with them, getting another fresh powder run.
Instead, I just feel… disconcerted. Off-balance. Queasy with a sickening mixture of desire and guilt. Because Lily is completely off-limits, and I’ve just used her getting injured as an excuse to put my hands all over her.
I don’t think I’ve felt like this in years. Not since that time I turned up as a guest speaker at a rich high school in Switzerland, only to come face-to-face with the guy I’d made out with at a gay bar in Paris.
Antoine.
I grit my teeth, the thought of him sending my heart thundering until the sound of it drowns out our footsteps in the snow.That fucking liar.
And now… now he’s my bloody flatmate.
