Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 113072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
Chase grabs the shoe out of my hands and stares at it. “Shit.”
“Hey,” Bess says. “What’s causing that?”
“Ask the chiropractor,” I insist. “But I think he may have dislocated his pelvis and made his gait uneven.” I pull one of my new business cards out of my pocket and thrust it at Bess. “Let me know if I’m right.”
She takes the card and clutches it to her chest. “Honey, I’ll buy you a bottle of expensive champagne if you’re right. Chase, did you smile pretty for the cameras?”
He isn’t listening, though. He’s still staring at his shoe. Then he lifts his gaze and gives me a long, thoughtful look that makes my face flush.
“If I’m right,” I chirp, “then you might have to stop hating me.”
His expression shutters immediately, and Bess just looks baffled.
Oops. I just made it awkward again.
“Coach Carson?” calls the publicist from across the ice.
“I’ve got to…” I say, pointing over my shoulder.
“Go,” Bess says. “We’ll follow up later.”
I turn and skate back toward the journalists, and toward Steve Sailor, who looks impatient. “Zoe can take your questions at this time,” he says.
Several hands shoot up, and so does my blood pressure.
Sailor calls on “Marco from ESPN.”
“How do hockey players feel about taking tips from a tiny woman?” the guy asks.
I suppose that question was inevitable. “A couple things,” I say, wondering how much the PR guy is going to hate my answer. “I seem to be drawn to jobs where people feel compelled to talk about my height and weight…”
There are exactly four women in my field of vision, including Darcy. And all four of them suddenly break into applause.
“But apart from that, I don’t really think my gender and stature matter a whole lot to this process. I’m a skating nerd, and I’ve been one all my life. The players here are professionals. They care about results. If I can help them skate faster, turn quicker, or maintain their edge longer, that’s what matters.”
Steve takes a question from someone else, who wants to know what kind of training a skating coach needs. That’s an easier one, and I do a fine job explaining my coursework in biomechanics and performance coaching. And then I take a question about a day in the life of a skating coach, which is silly since I haven’t had that many of them yet.
But it’s all fine, and I maintain my smile. At least until a sports blogger asks something I wasn’t expecting. “This question is for Mr. Sailor,” the woman says with a smile. “How come figure skating doesn’t show up anywhere in Chase Merritt’s bio? When I was prepping for this session, I found a really interesting video on the internet of Chase Merritt and Zoe from ten years ago. Haven’t you seen it?”
Sailor’s smile freezes on his face. “You don’t say.”
Chapter 18
Nine and a Half Years Ago
Do it again,” Zoe says, concentration making a cute furrow in her forehead. “This section isn’t working for me.”
It’s late, but Chase skates to the blue line anyway. Then he pushes off into the sequence.
It’s been tricky for them to get much ice time together, and he isn’t very quick at learning their new routine. Zoe uses a lot of skating vocabulary that’s foreign to him. When she says she’s adding a bracket turn or a twizzle, he waits for her to demonstrate.
He hears “Wicked Game” in his sleep now. And that’s not the only kind of wicked dream he’s been having about Zoe. When he closes his eyes, they’re either skating or naked. Anyone watching them practice together can probably read it off his face—he’s fallen hard for the energetic girl with the sad brown eyes.
She’s not sad tonight, though. She’s bossy. “Match the angle of my leg, Hotshot. I know you can get there.” Zoe demonstrates by pushing off on one leg and tilting her whole body parallel to the ice.
Chase knows this one. It’s called an arabesque, which is French for very bendy, with perfect balance.
He watches her with more amusement than a guy should be able to feel after, what, sixteen hours or so of physical activity? He got up at six this morning for a gym workout, then did a full day of skating sessions. Now it’s ten thirty, and he should be chilling on the roof or asleep in bed. They’re both out past curfew, even though he’s supposed to be on call in the dorm. But they got special permission for this practice, and no matter how exhausted he is, they can’t waste it.
And now she’s waiting for him to try the arabesque again. Her arms are crossed; her expression is expectant. Every time he looks at her, his heart shouts, Mine!
“Okay. How’s this?” He pushes off on one leg and raises the other behind him, extending his arm and tilting his body like a teeter-totter on the playground.