He’s just so chivalrous and gorgeous and protective in a way that’s sexy instead of smothering. Derrick barges into other people’s business, certain he’s the only one who can solve their problems. Ian is happy to stand back, respect his friends’ boundaries, and let people make their own decisions, only stepping in when it’s clear his help is needed as an ally and decent human being.
He’s just…the best, a fact he proves as he puts a hand on Sven’s shoulder and says, “I don’t think it matters what the drawing looks like, man. Just that you get your feelings out while you’re working.” He glances back to me. “Isn’t that right, Evie?”
“Yes. Absolutely.” I shoot Sven what I hope is an encouraging smile. “And if the pencil tips are breaking, I can set you up with something sturdier. I have some thick crayons or—”
“Sven’s getting downgraded to crayons,” Pete says, guffawing again. “Does he have to use the blunt scissors, too?”
Sven spins toward him, his eyes burning. “I swear to fucking God, I—”
“That’s enough,” Ian says, moving between Sven and the chortling Pete. “This is part of our team-building work for the next two weeks. And yeah, we may think it’s a waste of time to sit around coloring our feelings like we’re five years old, but this is what happens when you lead the league in penalties three seasons in a row. A bunch of you decided it would be fun to lash out like children on the ice, so now we’re being treated like children behind the scenes. And throwing another fit about the punishment isn’t going to make management happier with any of us.”
“This isn’t a punishment,” I pipe up in a thin voice, shocked that Ian, a guy I’ve never seen put anyone down is being so dismissive of my work. “Art therapy has been proven to reduce stress, improve communication skills, and promote feelings of well-being.”
“See there.” Ian motions toward me, but he doesn’t sound convinced and his next words make it clear he still isn’t on board with art therapy as a valuable tool for solving the Ice Possums’ problems. “So, buckle down, draw a pretty picture for Evie, who’s way too sweet to be forced to deal with your bullshit, and we can be out of here in twenty minutes. That’s plenty of time to hit happy hour across the street. I’m buying the first round for everyone who gets a thumbs-up from the teacher.”
Spirits buoyed by the promise of an adult beverage waiting at the end of their assignment, one by one, each set of massive shoulders hunches as they focus on their paper. Even Sven takes the package of easy-grip crayons I pass over and returns to his seat looking less upset about the state of his cat people.
Ian turns to me with a dazzling grin that would normally make me beam right back at him.
Instead, I whisper, “Thanks, but next time, I have to keep them the entire ninety minutes. It’s in my contract.”
“Of course,” he says, squeezing my shoulder before he bends to collect my pencils from the floor. He sets all of them back on my desk, save one, which he holds up between us with a conspiratorial wink. “Okay if I use this for my masterpiece?”
“Sure,” I say, forcing a smile as I hand him an anger iceberg worksheet. “Just write down a memory you have of being angry or out of control during a game or practice on the top of the iceberg. Then, under the water, draw pictures of things that contributed to you feeling out of control or frustrated in that situation.”
“Got it,” he says, but I can tell he isn’t taking this seriously, even before he lengthens his six-foot-two frame into a chair at the end of one table and proceeds to whip out the fastest stick figure drawing I’ve ever seen.
My nose wrinkles and I’m filled with a heavy, sinking feeling.
Who is this Ian?
And what has he done with the man I’ve always idolized?
Chapter 2
Evie
How long have I been Ian’s biggest fan?
Since I was in second grade, and he started giving Derrick a ride to and from hockey practice. I’d hang out with them while they gorged on after-practice snacks and go watch them play with my best friend, Harlow. And sometimes, Ian and Derrick would take us out for ice cream after the games as a special treat for being their most loyal fans.
Ian is the oldest of eight kids and has the patience of a saint. He never made me feel silly or babyish for wanting two scoops of bubblegum or for going on and on about whatever boy band Harlow and I were obsessed with at the time.
Though usually Harlow was the one who was truly obsessed. I went along with whatever my friend liked because she fit in with our peers so much better than I did. Even as a kid, Harlow knew how to dress and was on the cutting edge of cool.