Destiny on Ice (Boys of Winter #1)(35)

It’s sweet she’s worried, but I assure her, “I’m used to pressure. I’m the captain of the team, remember?”

“I know. I meant family pressure.”

I shrug. “Eh, it’s always been that way. I don’t have any brothers or sisters, so my parents’ expectations have always fallen on me.”

She eyes me warily.

“Uh-oh, what’s that look for?”

“I was just thinking,” she says. “Do you think maybe that’s part of the reason why you sabotage yourself sometimes?”

Whoa now, hold the bus.

Bristling, I snap, “Are you life-coaching me right now?”

She shakes her head. “No, not intentionally. But it is a legitimate question. I’m asking it tonight, though, simply as your friend.”

I cock my head. “Is that what we are now?”

“You tell me.”

She is becoming my friend, it’s true. Despite all our run-ins, or maybe because of them, we’re growing closer and closer. Though, if I’m to be honest with myself, I kind of want more. Oh hell, there’s no “kind-of” about it when it comes to any of my feelings for Aubrey.

But the friend zone is safe—and allowed—so I say, “Yes, we’re friends.”

She smiles. “I think so too.” Pinning me down with serious turquoise eyes, she resumes her earlier line of questioning. “So back to the point, friend. Do you think all that pressure has made you rebel and act out?”

“Act out? You make me sound like a three-year-old.”

“Some of your behavior would rival that of a three-year-old.”

I let out a snort. “You are life-coaching me now, Miss Shelburne. Don’t try to deny it.”

“Maybe just a little,” she admits. “But I’d really like to hear your answer, as your friend and as your life coach.”

“Wow, okay.” I run my hands through my hair. “You know, I’ve never thought about it like that. But it does make sense. There is an element of rebellion in most of the things I do.”

Softly, and after a long pause, she says, “Maybe that’s because a person has to want for themselves all the things other people are pushing them to do. You can’t live your life for someone else, Brent.”

“I don’t.” I shake my head. On this, I’m sure. “I really want those things too.”

“So what’s the problem?”

I hate that she makes me analyze myself like this. But I know it’s for my own benefit.

Why do I sabotage things? I want success; I definitely want to win championships. But—and this is why her being here has been so helpful—I don’t want those things all alone. Sure, there’s an entire team striving for the same thing as me, but it’s different. I want to share my success with someone who really cares about me, but also someone who can call me out on my bullshit.

Like Aubrey.

Hell, no. She’s my life coach and my friend, nothing more.

Liar.

Getting involved with her is strictly forbidden, remember?

We could always say ‘f*ck it.’

Shit, this is too confusing, so I just answer her question. “To be honest…and this is hard to admit…”

“Go on.”

“I think I’m the kind of guy who needs someone to share things with.”

“You have your parents—”

“Not like that.” I make a face. “I mean something different.”

“Oh? Ohhh…” It finally dawns on her. “You mean you want to share all the good things in your life with a girlfriend, or even a wife.”

I pin her with a withering look. “Let’s not get crazy here. I’m not ready for marriage.”

“Okay. Well, a girlfriend, then.”

“Maybe someone like that,” I say, hedging.

Shit, I don’t want to sound like a total * here.

“Hey,” I say in a rush, “can we talk about something else? I think my dick is turning in on itself and becoming a vagina.”

She rolls her eyes at my colorful imagery. “Sure, Brent,” she dryly replies. “Pick a new topic.”

“How about something simple, like what’s your favorite color?”

“It depends on the day,” she replies.

It’s my turn to roll my eyes. “Aubrey.” I sigh. “And you say I’m difficult. Okay, what about food? Have any favorite dishes?”

On that, she has an immediate response. “I love anything with tomato sauce.”

“Hmm, interesting. Guess I chose wisely when I was trying to decide what to cook for you tonight.”

“You did. The pasta was delicious.”

“My mother would kill me, though,” I admit. “If she knew I used jarred sauce she’d kick my ass.”

“Why’s that?”

“Half Italian,”—I point to myself—“right here. My mom’s 100 percent Sicilian. Someday you’ll have to come to Minnesota and try her homemade sauce. She lets it simmer for hours. It’s to die for, I swear.”

Wait. Did I just invite her to my parents’ house for dinner?

Looking down to where she’s folding the edge of the comforter over and over on itself, she murmurs, “I bet her sauce is really good.”