Worth The Wait

𝟏2|𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐈𝐓

𝐋𝐔𝐂𝐘 𝐁𝚨𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐋𝚬

Anxiety. My worst enemy.

Okay, maybe not my worst enemy—that title belongs to River Prescott—but it's still an enemy.

My hands shake as I grip the steering wheel, my heart pounding like I've just finished a three-minute program. The dashboard clock reads 5:35 a.m. I was supposed to be here at six. I showed up twenty-five minutes early because my brain convinced me that I'd somehow be late if I didn't leave my apartment at exactly 5:15 a.m.. Preposterous? Yes. But logic rarely wins against anxiety.

My homemade iced coffee sits in the cupholder, condensation dripping onto my cupholder. Next to it, my breakfast shake stares at me like it's expecting me to drink it. I don't know which one to pick first.

Coffee. Coffee comes first.

I take a sip, sighing when the sweet caffeine coats my tongue. It's the only part of my routine that brings a little calm. I had tried eating a protein bar when I woke up at 4:15 a.m., but my stomach promptly rejected it. So now I sit here, running on four hours of sleep, an empty stomach, and the overwhelming dread of having to skate with him today.

Would criminal charges be better than skating with River?

No. If I murdered him, I wouldn't be able to go to the Olympics. I could do this. I think.

Leaning forward, I rest my forehead against the steering wheel, closing my eyes in the hopes of catching ten more minutes of sleep. Maybe, just maybe, I can trick my body into thinking it's well-rested.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

I jolt awake, my hands flying in panic—and I hit the horn.

The loud BEEP makes me jump, which only leads to more chaos because now I'm fumbling to open the door—which swings right into River's stomach.

Oh. My. God.

A deep "oof" escapes him as he doubles over, his left hand gripping his knee while his right clutches his stomach. Shock freezes me for a split second before I scramble out of the car.

"River, shit, I am so sorry! Are you okay?"

He groans, still hunched over. "I'm okay." Liar.

"But you're not," I argue, stepping closer. "Come here, I need to check if your stomach is hard or tender."

River straightens—slowly—and then lifts his shirt.

I should be concerned about his well-being. I should not be staring.

I should not notice how defined his abs are, how his skin is golden and smooth, how the V-line disappearing into his sweatpants is unfairly distracting.

I should not be thinking any of these things about River Prescott. Focus, Lucie.

I shake the thoughts from my head and gently press my fingers against his stomach, looking for signs of injury. His muscles are solid under my fingertips, firm but not overly tense. He seems fine.

"Princess, if you wanted to feel me up, you could've just asked," River smirks.

And there it is. The exact reason why he is, and always will be, my worst enemy.

I snatch my hands away, crossing my arms. "Not like there's anything to feel," I snap, rolling my eyes. "It's just human flesh, blood, and bones. No different from anyone else."

It's a lie, of course. He's frustratingly good-looking in that cocky, knows-he's-hot, insufferable-hockey-player kind of way. His midnight-black hair is slightly tousled, and soft-looking. His jawline is sharp, defined, and unfairly chiseled. His brown eyes—almond-shaped, proof of his Asian descent—narrow slightly in amusement. And his smile? Smug. Always smug.