5. Everly

5

Everly

T he frigid air of the rink bit at my cheeks as I stepped onto the ice, clutching the boards for dear life. My classmates, an eclectic mix of eager and apprehensive faces, joined me, some more gracefully than others. The professor — if one could even call him that — watched us like a hawk eyeing its prey.

"Press your butts on the board," he instructed, his voice echoing off the ice.

A couple of my peers shuffled awkwardly, their movements stiff and unsure. Time seemed to stretch into eternity as they struggled to comply.

"What's the matter? Your feet glued to the ice?" His tone sliced through the cold air sharper than any skate blade.

I frowned, steadying myself against the board. "Is that necessary?" I asked.

He turned his gaze on me, eyes like flint. "It is," he groused. "It's called motivation."

My brows knitted together in disapproval. "It's called being a bully," I shot back without thinking.

Murmurs swirled around me as some of my classmates whispered, their words tinged with awe and disbelief. "That's Cooper Sinclaire... can't believe he has a job here."

Cooper Sinclaire?

I had heard that name before, but I didn't remember when.

The man before us, all scars and brooding looks, pushed off from the wall and skated into the center of our motley crew. "I'm Cooper Sinclaire," he said, a smirk playing on his lips as if he enjoyed a private joke. "And before you ask, no, I have no intention of remembering your names." His eyes scanned the group, landing on each of us just long enough to make it uncomfortable. "This class doesn't technically start until two weeks from now, but the dean insisted you get used to this…" He gestured broadly with a sweep of his arm. "Though judging by some of you, that's not going to happen."

His bluntness hit like a slap in the face. My classmates shuffled on their skates, some with flushed cheeks, others with eyes cast downward. A murmur of disbelief and resentment buzzed through the air.

"Is it true you almost beat Aaron Matthews to death?" The question came from a guy near the back, his voice a mix of fear and fascination.

Cooper didn't flinch. "It is," he replied, as if discussing the weather or last night's hockey scores.

My eyes widened at his nonchalance. How could someone speak so casually about violence? It felt wrong, like a dark cloud had passed overhead and blocked out the sun.

"Why?" I found myself asking before I could clamp down on my own curiosity.

Cooper's attention snapped to me like a magnet. He glided over with an ease that spoke of years on the ice. Without warning, he boxed me in between his arms against the boards, an invasion of personal space that had my heart hammering in my chest.

"Why, what?" he asked, his voice low and steady.

"Sinclaire!" Dean Walker's voice cut through the tension like a blade through silk.

But Cooper didn't move; he didn't even blink. His eyes held mine captive in their amber gaze.

"Because," he said in a low voice, ignoring the dean's call, "sometimes people need to learn lessons they won't forget."

Walker's footsteps echoed as he descended from the bleachers. His tone carried authority and a clear warning. "Sinclaire."

The moment stretched out between us, charged with an energy that made my skin tingle.

"Looks like our dean has a little favorite," Cooper said, his smirk spreading like a crack on thin ice.

I straightened my spine, refusing to wilt under his condescension. "What lesson could possibly be taught using violence as a method?" I demanded.

His eyes narrowed slightly, but the smirk remained. "I'm glad you asked, little girl," he replied before finally pushing away from me.

Heat rushed to my cheeks, not from embarrassment but from indignation. "It's Everly," I spat through gritted teeth.

"Excuse me?" Cooper's voice held an edge of genuine surprise.

"It's Everly," I repeated, stronger this time. "Not little girl or sugar or sweetheart or darling. My name is Everly, Everly Hawthorne."

An eyebrow arched high on Cooper's scarred face as surprise flitted across his features, like a shadow passing momentarily over the sun. "Is it now?" he drawled. "Well, that's a mighty nice name, little girl ." His tone dripped with sarcasm, but his next words cut deep. "Your daddy Anthony Hawthorne?"

My eyes must have widened more than I intended because his grin grew even more pronounced at my reaction.

"Sinclaire!" Dean Walker barked from across the rink. "You going to teach or what?"

Cooper's gaze didn't waver from mine as he took a step back before gliding into the middle of the ice.

I clenched my teeth, holding his gaze for a moment longer before turning away. How did this man know my father? Dad was one of the best NHL trainers before he passed, but Cooper looked too young to have played for Dad's team. He couldn't be over thirty.

"All right, everyone," Cooper's voice pulled me back from my thoughts, "let's start with the basics."

I watched as he demonstrated a simple glide, his skates whispering secrets to the ice. My classmates and I pushed off the boards tentatively, mimicking his movements with varying degrees of success.

"Keep your knees bent," he instructed. "It's not a dance; you're not impressing anyone here."

A girl beside me giggled nervously, wobbling on her skates like a newborn fawn. Cooper shot her a look that said I'm not kidding , and she straightened up quickly.

"Now," he continued, "let's talk about stopping. Because believe me, you'll want to know how to stop."

He made it look effortless, a quick turn of the skates and a shower of ice crystals that caught the overhead lights like tiny diamonds.

My attempt was less graceful — more a desperate flailing that ended with my hands pressed against the boards for support. Cooper skated by, raising an eyebrow at my struggle.

"It's all about balance, sugar," he said. "Find your center. Unless you want me to help you find it."

Opening my eyes, I met his expectant look. "I'm trying," I said, pushing off again with more determination.

He watched me for a moment longer before nodding once and moving on to help another student.

As the class progressed, Cooper corrected stances and offered gruff encouragement that somehow managed to inspire confidence in even the most timid skaters. I found myself gliding more smoothly, almost forgetting the man behind the instruction was someone who seemed so harsh at first glance.

"Your edges are your best friends on ice," Cooper explained. "They'll keep you upright when you think you're going down."

His words were meant for all of us but felt like they were directed at me alone. I focused on the edges of my blades, carving tentative paths across the rink's surface.

"Well, lookie here, girl can skate!" His approval was sparse but felt like a victory, nonetheless.

As I practiced stops and starts, something in me began to thaw — an ice-bound tension I hadn't realized I carried since Dad passed away. With each push and glide across the cold surface below me, I felt lighter somehow — freer than I'd been in ages.

Cooper had moved on to showing us crossovers when Dean Walker appeared at the rinkside again, his arms crossed as he observed us with a critical eye. My concentration broke momentarily as our eyes met; Walker gave me an encouraging nod before his gaze shifted back to Cooper, who seemed oblivious to everything but teaching us how to skate.

I was the last one on the ice, my classmates' laughter and chatter fading into the distance as they left the rink. Alone, I savored the newfound quiet, broken only by the whisper of my skates against the cold surface. The ice felt like a canvas waiting for the brushstrokes of my blades.

"Hey!" Cooper's voice ricocheted around the empty arena. "You planning on camping out here?"

I glanced over my shoulder, catching sight of him skating toward me with an ease that spoke of years mastering this frozen terrain. "Just one more lap," I called back, pushing off for another circuit.

"You're gonna wear a groove in the ice," he grumbled as he caught up to me.

Curiosity bubbled up inside me, outweighing any lingering intimidation from our earlier encounters. "Why did you become a coach?" I asked, matching his pace. "You don't really have the temperament."

Cooper let out an exasperated sigh. "Does it matter?"

I shrugged. "I'm curious."

He barked a laugh, though it held no warmth. "Let's just say I didn't have much of a choice," he said curtly. "Now stop yapping and focus on your form."

Undeterred by his sour tone, I pressed on. "Were you ever going to tell us about your NHL career?"

He glowered at me. "It's not part of the curriculum."

"But people are going to ask," I pointed out, taking a wide turn around the rink's edge.

Cooper's expression hardened like ice under a sudden frost. "And they can keep asking," he snapped.

"Okie dokie," I replied cheerfully, undisturbed by his mood.

He let out a frustrated huff but said nothing more as we continued to skate in silence.

I couldn't help but feel a surge of triumph; I was skating — really skating — and with each stroke of my skates against the ice; I felt more alive than I had in a long time.

I coasted alongside Cooper, our blades carving parallel lines in the ice. The cold air nipped at my exposed skin, but I was too caught up in the moment to care. His presence was both unsettling and oddly compelling.

"So, why did you stop playing?" I ventured, my breath forming a cloud in the chill. "Is it because of what you did to poor Aaron Matthews? What did he say anyway?"

He tensed beside me, the easy rhythm of his skating faltering for just a heartbeat. "That's none of your damn business," he snapped, his voice a whip-crack in the silent rink.

Taken aback by his sharpness, I tried to steady my voice. "It's just that people usually have a reason for giving up something they're good at."

Cooper whirled on me, a tempest suddenly contained within the walls of the rink. "You know what? You ask too many questions," he growled. "Now get your ass off the ice."

His words stung like a slap to the face, but I refused to let him see just how much he'd rattled me. Meeting his glare with one of my own, I found my voice calm and even.

"You know," I said, "you could be more polite about it."

"Oh, could I, little girl ?" he said with a sneer.

I nodded once, firmly. "You could."

Without another word, I turned from him and skated over to the bench. The chill in the air seemed to intensify with each stroke of my blades as I left him behind on the ice. Sitting down with deliberate slowness, I began to unlace my skates. My fingers worked at the knots, pulling the laces loose while my mind raced with thoughts of Cooper Sinclaire—a man made of ice and fire in equal measure.

Clad only in mismatched socks, I padded across the cold, damp floor to the skate counter, the sounds of my classmates' laughter still echoing in my ears. I handed over my skates to the guy behind the counter, who couldn't have been much older than me. He was striking in a way that immediately made me think of those actors you'd see on a summer blockbuster poster, with a smile that could light up the entire rink.

When he caught my eye, his grin widened. "How was it?" he asked.

"It was amazing!" I exclaimed, feeling a surge of excitement as I recalled the feel of the ice beneath my feet. "I mean, at first, I thought I'd just embarrass myself in front of everyone, but once you get the hang of it... it's like flying, without ever leaving the ground."

He chuckled at my description. "Sounds like you caught the bug," he said. "I'm Zach." He extended his hand toward me.

I shook it, noting the warmth of his touch compared to the chill that clung to my skin from the ice. "Zach?" I echoed, liking how it sounded. "I'm Everly."

"A pretty name for a pretty girl," he replied smoothly.

I felt a blush warm my cheeks at his compliment and quickly looked away, hoping to hide it.

Zack leaned forward, the glint in his blue eyes full of mischief. "You know," he said, his voice dropping to an almost conspiratorial whisper, "there's this party at my frat this weekend. We're kicking off spring break. You should come."

My eyes went wide, and I could feel them reflecting every ounce of my surprise. "Really?"

He chuckled, a warm, inviting sound that made me feel like I was already part of some secret club. "It's like you've never been invited to a party before," he teased.

I kept my thoughts tightly reined in, a smile plastered on my face to mask the truth. I most certainly had never been invited to a party before, but there was no way I was going to tell him that.

"Here," Zack said, extending his hand with a flyer in it. "Chicks get in free. And wear red. It means I invited you, and I want the credit."

I took it from him, our fingers brushing briefly. "Thank you," I murmured, trying to sound nonchalant as I examined the flyer.

It was a riot of colors and shapes, the kind of design meant to catch the eye and hold it hostage. At the center was an image of a DJ with headphones slung around his neck, surrounded by splashes of neon paint that seemed to leap off the paper. The words 'SPRING brEAK BASH' were emblazoned across the top in bold, blocky letters that seemed to shout at me even in silence. Below that, in slightly smaller print, it promised an unforgettable night with live music, dancing, and 'the best drinks on campus'. The address at the bottom was scrawled in a font that tried too hard to look like graffiti.

"Do I need to bring anything?" I asked, still staring at the flyer. "Like an id?"

The words 'Bring your friends!' were printed just below the address, followed by 'BYOB for those over 21'. It was clear this was going to be a night where rules were bent and memories made—or forgotten.

"An id?" he asked.

"Well, it's not like I can drink," I pointed out.

"And it's not like campus police are going to be breathing down our necks," Zack said with a casual shrug. "You can drink if you want. Hell, I'll get you your first one. What do you say?"

My breath caught in my throat, and I could feel the heat rising to my cheeks, turning them a shade of red that would rival the setting sun. It was a tempting offer, one that made my heart flutter. The idea of attending a college party, sipping on something probably too strong for my unaccustomed palate—it was like stepping into another world, one that had been off-limits for so long.

"I'd... I'd like that," I managed to say, the words tumbling out before I could second-guess them.

"See you then," he said with a wink that sent another wave of heat across my face.

I nodded, clutching the flyer as if it were a golden ticket, and practically skipped to the locker room. The air felt different somehow—charged with possibility and the sweet scent of rebellion. This was it: my first real taste of freedom, and I could hardly wait.