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)
And that was why she could hardly fall asleep after one of their practices. He’s doing this for her. Just because she asked him to and because it’s fun. Not for any other reason. And she’s so, so grateful.
Martina said, Skate for joy, not points. And now Zoe is. Even if it’s not exactly the kind of joy Martina had in mind.
There’s a jump sequence next. Hers are doubles; his are singles. But they still look fantastic together, and Chase lands his like a pro. She can see the gleam of sweat on his neck. When she kisses that spot later, he’ll taste salty.
Never before in her life has she known the taste of someone else’s skin. Until now, she’s never wanted to.
Here comes the section Chase calls the spin cycle. He’s invented a fun name for every skill. She rotates around him until they come face-to-face. After her too-short glance into his ocean eyes, they lunge into a pair camel spin—with Zoe clasping Chase’s ankle, and Chase clasping Zoe’s. From there, he grabs her right hand and her right foot at the same time and yanks her into the air. Still spinning, she flies like a backward Superman around and around.
There is no one on the planet she’d trust to do this except for him. They’d practiced it on the lawn first, until they were both breathless and laughing. And all for a ten-second skill. Before she knows it, he’s setting her down again, and they’re doing the angsty octopus, another pair spin, this one in a crouched position.
Four minutes fly by at warp speed. As Zoe clasps his hand for the last set of crossovers, it’s just hitting her that it’s over after tonight. No more planning. No more practicing together. She’s become used to sitting in bed, composing missives like I’ve been thinking about the second jump sequence…
Now what, though?
This idea is so distressing that she almost forgets to shift her weight heading into a bit of showy footwork. But Chase is right there, offering his hand, bending into the lunge just like she showed him.
The last thirty seconds go by much too fast. This is really it. They’ve done it, and there will be applause. And for once in Zoe’s life, that’s entirely beside the point. In four short weeks Chase will climb into his truck, kiss her goodbye, and drive back to the Midwest without her.
Suddenly the instrumentation dies away, and Chris Isaak is singing the last mournful lyric.
Zoe and Chase join their free hands into a heart, internet-style. And as Chris Isaak declares the dearth of love in the world, they pull their two hands apart, breaking the heart in half as the song ends.
Zoe glances at Chase, finding his expression so full of pride and wonder that it takes her breath away.
“We killed it,” he whispers, raising her arm overhead to set up for the bow. “Absolutely crushed it.”
The audience is on their feet as they bow. It’s a friendly crowd, not exactly a panel of international judges. But the praise still lights her up inside.
They skate off together as the next act is announced. And when they reach the rubber padding, they clomp together down the darkened tunnel. Behind them, the lights fade to black in preparation for the next skater.
Chase stops abruptly, pushes Zoe up against the wall, and kisses her like his life depends on it. “You make me so fucking happy,” he whispers.
She knows just what he means.
Chapter 21
Present Day
Once we land, I hand off my luggage to Darcy and take a cab to an arena outside the city, where eight junior teams are battling for a tournament cup. Then it’s time to navigate the stadium in search of the Legends’ two most senior scouts, Hank Butters and Peter Scorch. They’re on the road so often that I’ve only met them on Zoom calls.
As I thread through the crowded arena corridor, I feel my cool factor rise exponentially every time someone eyes my Legends Scout ID badge and then looks up to memorize my face.
The stakes couldn’t be higher for these boys—a standout performance here could mean a life-changing draft pick. Although the majority of these elite players will never see the inside of a major league dressing room.
I buy a hot pretzel and make my way into section four, where I find Scorch and Butters. They’re both in their sixties, I guess, with graying hair and the paunch that comes from watching more hockey than you play. But they were both pro players at one point.
“Hi, guys.” I claim my empty seat. “How’s the field looking today?”
“Great,” says Scorch at the same time Butters says, “Miserable.”
I laugh. But after ten minutes of watching hockey with these guys, I realize their bickering is a deeply entrenched habit.
“Would you look at that kid on defense?” Scorch says. “Number 4. He’s got hands like a surgeon.”