Ice & Prejudice

Chapter 6

Nik's POV:

The cold air of the rink bites against my skin as I glide across the ice, my mind refusing to focus on anything but her. Victoria's voice lingers in my head, the way she explained the psychological concepts with such precision, her lips moving in sync with her thoughts, that soft, angelic voice that carried a tone of underlying sarcasm I couldn't help but notice. I hated her. I despised her. Loathed her.

What the hell, Nik? I shake my head, trying to push the thoughts away. The puck feels heavier than usual as I send it flying towards the net, missing by a mile.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Wolves! Focus! Damn it!" Coach Gibson's southern drawl booms across the rink. He's leaning against the boards, his face red with frustration, a hand rubbing at the back of his neck. His curses are as creative as they are colorful, most of them so thick with his accent it's a wonder anyone can understand him. "If I wanted a damn figure skater, I'd call the damn Russians!"

I'm half Russian, mom's side. She's dead now, though. If it matters.

The guys snicker under their breath, but I can feel their eyes on me. I tighten my grip on my stick, frustration bubbling up.

"Come on, man!" Ryan, one of our defensemen, yells, skating past me. He's the team's loudmouth, always quick with a joke, but right now, his usual humor is laced with irritation. "You're not even here right now. What the fuck are you doing? What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing. I'm good," I mutter, forcing myself to focus as I line up for another drill.

Good. Except I wasn't good. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Victoria's face, the way her dark brown hair framed her delicate features, how her eyes sparked with challenge every time we exchanged words. Those big dimples in her cheeks whenever she pronounced certain word that made her appear all cute and innocent. I knew the little liar underneath, though. And don't even get me started on that little smirk of hers when she thought she had me cornered—it made my blood fucking boil.

The whistle blows again, and we're off, skating in a coordinated blur. But my mind keeps slipping. I remember how her eyes stayed sharp, dissecting the concepts with ease, and how she broke down that theory on cognitive dissonance as if it was child's play.

"Cognitive dissonance," she had said, her voice smooth yet commanding, "is when we experience a mental discomfort because our actions don't align with our beliefs or attitudes. It's why people rationalize their bad behavior, why they'll twist their reality to make themselves feel better about something they know is wrong. It's a survival mechanism, in a way, to protect our self-esteem. But in manipulation, it's dangerous, especially if someone can get inside your head and make you question your own morals and reality."

I remember the way her eyes bore into me when she said that, as if she knew more than she was letting on. It was infuriating how easily she made it all seem, how her intelligence seemed to flow effortlessly from her. But what really pissed me off was the way I caught myself watching her, how I couldn't tear my eyes away from her lips as she spoke. I noticed the way she bites and chews on her bottom lip a lot. Especially when she's concentrating and thinking. She even had a small cut on her bottom lip as if she—or someone else had recently bitten too hard.

"Damn it, Wolves!" I'm snapped out of my thoughts by the sound of Coach Gibson slamming his clipboard against the boards. "You've been off since we started. If you don't get your head out of your ass, I'm benching you for the next game!"

That gets a few whistles and jeers from the guys. Great, now I'm the team's clown.

"Sorry, Coach," I grunt, forcing myself to refocus. "I'm good. Let's go."