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)
“You’ll be fine,” I say, leaning into the stretch. “You’re one of the more natural skaters I’ve ever seen. You know you ruined me for other hockey players?”
His eyes widen. “Um, what?”
“Your skating.” I shrug. “I thought they’d all skate like you. Then I started working with college players during my internship, and I realized how few of them will ever skate like you.”
“Oh.” He chuckles. “Maybe you’d better hold the praise until after we try this. What do you think about the music, though? That’s the first thing we need to decide.”
He’s right, but I’m not looking forward to this discussion. “You always had opinions about music. What direction do you want to take this?”
After tying his laces in a bow, he stands up. “Hate to admit it, but DeLuca was right. It would be easier to skate the same routine again.”
Easier for who? “Do you think you’d remember it?”
“Probably?” He shrugs one shoulder. “At the very least, I’ll remember some of it. And it’s hard to imagine starting from scratch. I’m ten years out of practice. I mean, if you want to choreograph something dumbed down—like a TikTok dance on skates—I’m sure I could pick that up quick. But if it’s going to be real skating, then something familiar would help.”
I pull my phone out of my pocket and open up that video, which I’ve downloaded for review. With the sound off, I watch it on fast-forward. “There are sections that we could simplify, if we have to. The spins were pretty elaborate. Do you still clown around with jumps and spins?”
He dodges my gaze and gives his head a shake. “Never.”
“Hmm. Well…” It’s not like I want to skate our old program, but it’s probably for the best. “I guess we’ll dust it off. Should we watch it through right now?” I wiggle my phone.
“Fuck no. I’ll watch it later.”
Okayyyy.
“Let’s warm up first,” he says gruffly. “I need to get used to these skates. And then you can remind me how it starts.”
“Fine. We’ll start slow,” I agree. “I thought we’d just warm up with some crossovers. Try a few spins, see how rusty you are. Take a few laps first?”
“Definitely. Give me a minute to stretch.”
I leave him alone, gliding out onto the freshly surfaced ice. The last time I put figure skates on was a month ago. I was living in my childhood bedroom in Massachusetts and applying for coaching jobs.
“You might as well help me out,” my mother said. “It’s not like you’re busy.” So I strapped on my skates and taught little girls to jump and twirl.
But today I’m skating just for me, and I can’t even remember the last time I did that. The sound of my edges cutting the ice is as familiar as breathing. As my muscles activate, I fall into a comfortable rhythm, gliding into crossovers at center ice. Then I try a couple of dramatic arabesques, since our program is full of them.
I’m probably not as flexible as I was at eighteen, but I can still do this. And my bad knee feels strong. So for the first time in months, I throw a double axel and land it cleanly, just to prove I can.
But then I hear applause.
Turning around, I spot a cluster of hockey players on the other side of the plexi. DeLuca, Tremaine, Weber, and O’Connell are all standing there, smiles on their nosy faces. Even Darcy is along for the ride.
That’s not great. I’m supposed to take Chase’s hand and rehearse the sexiest choreography I’ve ever skated in my life. We do not need an audience.
Chase glides out onto the ice. Ignoring the peanut gallery, he takes a few easy strokes. Bending into a sequence of lunges, he tests the edges of his blades, experimenting with the feel of the new steel under his feet.
Then he spins around and skates backward. I’m just admiring his form when he suddenly trips. I watch in disbelief as he sprawls across the ice, bouncing his chin off the surface.
And the look on his face? Pure bewilderment.
A howl of shocked laughter rises up from the other end of the rink. “Oh my God! Toe pick!”
“It’s just like in that movie!” someone shouts.
As I fly over to him, Chase is already getting up, rubbing his chin and scowling. “Are you okay?” I demand.
“Of course,” he growls.
“Let’s see a jump!” DeLuca hoots.
Oh, for fuck’s sake. “Darcy!” I yell.
“Yes, Coach?”
“Could you go into the equipment room and ask Bernie how many pairs of men’s and women’s figure skates they have in the rental bins? Anyone who’s still in this room in five minutes is joining us on the rink for a figure skating clinic.”
“Oh shit,” someone whispers.
“Not joking!” I yell. “And if there’s any video of today, heads will roll.”
“Yes, Coach!” Darcy repeats.