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)
Funnily enough, Chase and I are alone in the rink not sixty seconds later. “Are you really okay?” I ask him.
“Said so, didn’t I?”
“You’re going to have a bruise on your chin,” I point out. “When you lie about where it’s from, just don’t say it’s a bar fight.”
His surly expression softens a degree or two. He jerks a thumb toward the doors. “Nice work getting rid of that bunch.”
“I know, right?” I played the tough-coach card for once, and it worked. “You should take a few more minutes to warm up.”
“You think?” he mumbles. But then he skates off smoothly. As I watch, he takes a couple of fast laps, then experiments with some footwork. He shifts his weight effortlessly from edge to edge, then transitions into spirals.
I watch, amazed at how quickly it all comes back to him. Is it really any wonder I fell for him? He was fun, he was kind to me, and he skates like an angel. My poor teenage heart didn’t stand a chance.
He moves into a spin, body tight, muscles bulging. If we do this and it lands on the internet, a large proportion of female fans—and some of the men—will lose their minds.
He finishes the spin and catches me watching him. “Maybe I’ve still got it.”
“Maybe,” I say mildly. “Just don’t jump, Hotshot. It’s against the rules. Did you try a camel spin?”
“Not yet.”
“It’s okay to be afraid.”
He lets out a startled laugh. “Did you just call me chicken?” Before I can answer, he breaks into back crossovers, arms strong yet fluid. He pauses in the backward glide, leg outstretched… Then he just goes for it. The rotation is clean and controlled, his extension beautiful.
Then he comes to a smooth stop, and I remember to exhale.
“Still got it,” he says. “But now the room is spinning!” He gives me a sheepish smile. Our eyes meet, and I feel a warmth inside my chest that I haven’t felt in a long time. Then he pulls his phone out of his pocket. “All right. I’ll put on the song. We’ll see how much we remember.”
“Sure,” I say, clearing my throat. “It starts with, um, crossovers into some arabesques. Meet you at center ice.”
He glides over to the side and fiddles with his phone, and I wait. Keep it together, Carson, I coach myself. Although my heart thumps as Chase skates toward me and makes a perfect T-stop at my side.
Here we go. I extend my hand, palm down.
He gives me a heavy glance. Then he extends his hand, palm up. I can’t even look at him as his roughened hand slides against mine—I’m afraid of what my face might show. And I wait a couple of seconds for the music. But that’s a long time when you’re holding Chase Merritt’s hand, like the dreamy girl you once were.
I still miss him.
Then the music finally starts, and my body remembers what to do. I push into the first crossovers.
Chase does, too, but a beat too late. We struggle to regulate our timing. By the third bar of music, we’re still out of sync. Badly. When we hit the first arabesque, I’m a half beat ahead. And then we both overcorrect, so the next time it happens the opposite way.
“Fuck,” Chase mutters.
“Keep going,” I say tensely. “We’ll get better.”
We stick it out another fifteen seconds or so, until the side-by-side camel spin. But our timing is so off that we have to bail out of the turn in opposite directions, just to prevent a collision.
I skate over to pause the music, and I’m sweatier than I really should be after a few minutes of skating. “Okay, so we’re rusty.”
“You think?” He growls.
“It happens to everyone,” I say, and it sounds like the foolish platitude that it really is.
Chase shakes out his neck. “No problem. Start it up again.”
“Right. We can do this.”
Spoiler alert: We can’t do this.
The second run-through is a little better. Maybe. If I’m generous. But the third attempt is a disaster. No matter what we try, we can’t seem to sync up with the music.
After the fifth try, Chase whips off his hoodie and flings it at the bench with an angry shout.
I’m so startled I suck in a breath.
“What?” he says, face red. “You think this is going well?”
“Not really. Do you regret saying yes?”
“Do you wish I hadn’t?” He skates in a circle, his face red with frustration. “You said yes, too.”
“You think I had a choice?” I fling my arms out to the sides. “One of us has a multimillion-dollar contract, the other can’t make her rent payment. You can let Sailor down if you have to, but don’t pin it on me.”
He puts his hands on his trim hips and glares at me. “You want me to drop out now? After…” He looks at his watch. “Twenty-two minutes of effort? Is that who you think I am?”