Page 76 of Breaking the Ice
“I don’t know.” Evan bobs his brows in an impression of Eugene’s smolder. “I think he’d be better if he were blond.”
“He’s perfect just the way he is,” I mutter, closing my eyes again.
“Should I dye my hair so I look more like him?” Evan asks, rubbing soothing circles on my back. God, that feels good. I sink into his touch, craving more of it.
“No, you’re perfect, too,” I manage to say, fighting for consciousness.
“I don’t know, I heard blonds were out.”
I shake my head, nuzzling his chest. “Nah, look at Ryan Gosling. It’s totally working for him.”
“It doesn’t give too strong Ken vibes?”
“Who cares?” I snort. “I think you’re hot.”
“That’s all that matters.” Sounding smug, Evan drops a kiss to the top of my head.
It’s so simple when it’s just the two of us, hanging out and watching movies. No pressures from our families, the hockey team, or social media hashtags. Is there a way to take the good parts of this and make it last?
We agreed to an annulment. It wouldn’t be fair to change the deal at this point and ask more of him that he wants to give. I just have to enjoy this now, while it lasts.
Chapter
Thirty-Five
EVAN
Evan: Do you need anything today?
Isabella: You were so amazing, taking care of me like that. I’m going to have some of the soup you got me and then work on my lesson plans.
Evan: Text me if you want me to grab anything after practice tonight. Glad you are feeling better.
“Young! Get in here!”
I bite back a sigh at the summons I knew was coming. Did I try to sneak into the locker room and get ready without being spotted?
Yes.
Did it work?
No.
Wincing, I pull my undershirt over my head and shuffle into Coach Russell’s office, all eyes on me. Best to think of him as “Coach” right now and not “Isabella’s dad.” Why does this walk of shame feel oddly familiar?
I force myself to look him straight on as I sit in the unforgiving wooden chair across from his desk. “Coach?”
His face is already red and he’s breathing hard, and he hasn’t even started speaking yet. Bad sign. He holds up his phone, showing a text message I sent yesterday. “You wanna explain this?”
“Yeah, so, Isabella—”
“Don’t say her name. Don’t make her part of your excuse.”
I inhale and exhale slowly, willing myself to keep my cool. I’m not sure why he asked for an explanation when all he clearly wanted to do was yell at me, but I can take it.
“Okay. I had a family emergency, and I had to take care of something.”
Coach’s eyes flash, and he throws out his words like they are knives. “I’ve already adjusted your practice and conditioning schedule because of your student teaching. Do you expect special treatment because of…” he waves around, “our situation?”
