PUCK ME ON ICE

Chapter 7

Tessy’s POV

The entire drive to Ryder’s house, I couldn’t stop thinking about his text.

Lesson One?

What kind of lesson?

The only reason I agreed to this ridiculous arrangement was because Tristan was involved. That was it. Whatever Ryder had planned, I just hoped it wasn’t completely insane.

Standing outside his bedroom door now, I took a slow breath before knocking.

“Come in.”

I pushed the door open.

The first thing I noticed was that he was actually wearing a shirt this time.

Good.

The second thing I noticed was that I still couldn’t erase the memory of what I’d walked in the last time I was here.

I suddenly felt a little uncomfortable being in his room.

“Here, have this,” Ryder says, handing me a can of energy drink.

“No thanks, I don’t drink that,” I politely refused.

“What do you drink then? I can get it for you,” he says with a smirk playing on his lips.

“I don’t want anything. Let’s just get started so I can go do other things with my time,” I say.

“Alright then,” he says, and I watch him bring out his sketchbook. “So what do you think is the problem with this drawing?” he says, and I took the sketch from him to get a closer look. It’s a drawing of a simple tree.

“It’s a tree,” I say, looking at the details.

“Yes, a beautiful tree, right?” he says, expecting my approval, and I looked up at him.

“It’s just a tree,” I say.

“It’s not good enough because it’s a tree?” he says with confusion.

“You don’t need a complicated drawing to be good at art. This tree is just a tree. It seems like you had no feelings towards making this drawing—you just wanted to draw it and that’s it,” I say.

“Elaborate,” he says as he sat on the bed beside me, making me a little uncomfortable.

“When you present a piece of art as an artist, you need to convince people that a lot goes into just a simple drawing. They can feel the tree come to life, they can see the thought process, the meaning behind it, and—”

“Okay, this really makes no sense. It’s just a drawing,” he says, and I rolled my eyes.

I was about to respond until a notification popped up on my phone. I reached out, and it was an email—the one I have been wanting to receive. I opened it, and my heart sank. My art was rejected for the tenth time.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Yeah, sure, I am fine. Let’s continue,” I say with a calm tone. “Let’s just move on to your other sketches.”

“You don’t look fine at all,” Ryder says, leaning in a bit closer, his playful smirk fading into genuine concern. “What was that notification about?”

“It’s nothing that concerns you,” I say sharply, forcing myself to lock my phone and flip it face-down on the mattress. My chest felt tight, the sting of the rejection mixing with the awkwardness of being in his space. “We are here to work on your art, not mine.”

Ryder studied my face for a long second, then looked down at the sketchbook between us. “You’re talking about putting feelings into a piece, but you look like you’re about to spill yours right now.” He twirled the pencil in his hand and offered it to me. “If my tree lacks soul, why don’t you show me how it’s done?”

I stared at the pencil, then at his arrogant face. A surge of frustration washed over me—frustration at the gallery, at my bad luck, and at him.

“Fine,” I said, yanking the pencil from his fingers and pulling the sketchbook onto my lap. “Watch closely.”

“One second,” he says as he gets a notification on his phone.

I sigh softly, crossing my arms.

“Sorry,” he says as he sets the phone down face-down on the bed. “Let’s continue.”

He barely finishes the sentence before more notifications start buzzing in rapid succession against the nightstand.

“Are you going to turn that off or not?” I say, annoyance laced in my tone.

“Okay, I will,” he says, holding his hands up in surrender as he reaches over and flips the silent switch. “No more distractions.”

I look down at his sketchbook, the lingering sting of my own rejection letter heavy in my chest. The enthusiasm I had just a minute ago is completely gone. “Can we continue tomorrow? I don’t really feel good,” I confessed.

“Hey, what’s the matter? You can talk to me,” he says, his tone softening as he looks at me with genuine concern.

I stare at him for a second, but I don’t think I want him knowing about my constant rejections. The last thing I need right now is Ryder’s pity.

“It’s nothing. I think I just ate something bad,” I lie, gathering my things as I prepare to leave. “So make sure you draw that tree again, and do exactly as I said.”

“Okay, but I still… I don’t get it,” he says, scratching the back of his neck.

“I will explain it to you again next time,” I say, slinging my bag over my shoulder and walking out of his room.

I hear his footsteps right behind me, following me down the hallway. But as I turn the corner toward the stairs, I nearly collide with someone and lose my balance.

“Hey, easy,” a warm voice says as strong arms catch me before I can hit the floor. The instant touch makes my stomach do a violent backflip. I look up to see Tristan, his eyes searching mine with worry. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, I am,” I say, a bright, helpless smile spreading across my face before I can even stop it.

“Hope Ryder isn’t giving you any trouble,” Tristan says with an amused tone, glancing past me at his brother. “He can be a lot sometimes.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be somewhere?” Ryder snaps from behind me, his voice cutting through the moment.

“Yeah, but I left early,” Tristan responds smoothly. Before he can say anything else, his phone begins to ring in his pocket. He pulls it out, checks the caller ID, and gives me an apologetic look. “Gotta take this. See you later, Tessy,” he adds with a warm smile, turning to head down the hall.

My gaze follows him until he disappears around the bend.

“You don’t have to make it that obvious,” Ryder says, snapping me right out of my daze.

“I am not making it obvious,” I say in sharp defense, my cheeks flushing hot.

“Yeah, right,” Ryder scoffs, rolling his eyes. “There’s a party tonight. I want you to come.”

“I don’t feel good, I told you,” I say, shaking my head.

“You’ll feel better before tonight. I’ll come pick you up,” he says casually.

I pause, staring at him. “Wait, why are you going to pick me up?” I ask with pure confusion.

“We have a deal, right?” Ryder says, stepping closer and lowering his voice. “I help you get Tristan. So trust me on this.”

I hesitate. Normally, after getting a rejection email like that, I would stay in bed all night, drowning in self-pity and sulking over not being good enough. Maybe going out tonight means I won't have to sit alone with my thoughts.

“Fine. You can come pick me up,” I say.

“Alright then,” he says, that familiar, arrogant smirk playing on his lips.

I turn and head down the rest of the stairs, but as I walk toward the door, a knot forms in my gut. For some reason, I really don’t trust him.