I suck in a breath.
“Natalie,” I reply. I make to move around the group, but she steps into my path.
“Whatareyou doing here?” She cocks her head, puzzled.
“Working.” My reply is short and tense. “Excuse me,” I say, attempting to move around her again. This time a tiny brunette blocks the path. Isla Frankie.
“Weren’t you, like, kicked out of the rink?” Isla asks in mock confusion. Again with the questions. Some of the other girls snicker behind her. “I’m shocked they let you within ten feet of the arena.”
“Ladies,” Elsie’s voice booms sharply from the doorway to her office, and she pokes her head into the hall. “Move along.” They at least have the decency to look somewhat chastised before they move their group en masse toward the other locker room.
“Oh, Natalie,” I say, voice syrupy sweet. She stiffens and turns slowly, eyes narrowing. “I almost didn’t recognize you without my choreography. Congrats on bronze, though. I know taking the quad axel out must have been devastating, what with the difficulty level taking such a hit, but hey—you really made it work.”
Her jaw tics. For a second, I’m worried she’s going to lunge at me, but instead she whips her perfect blondeponytail over her shoulder and stomps into the locker room without another word.
I sigh heavily when she’s gone, the bravado I briefly felt exiting my body.
“Go home for the day, Monroe,” Elsie calls from inside her office, the door still open. I wince internally, knowing she probably heard my snarky exchange. My first impression back is killer.
I tilt the cart onto its back wheels and start my walk to the supply closet. When I flick my eyes back toward the Wolverines locker room, I notice Rhodes leaning against the open door.
His brows are raised, lips twitching in amusement as he lifts his water bottle, giving me a silent cheers.
Fan-fucking-tastic.I love an audience.
Chapter Four
Rhodes
It’s five-thirty a.m. when I arrive at the rink in my black Land Rover.
I love this car. It was my first big purchase with my NHL paycheck andI remember so clearly the rush of pride when I drove it off the lot, the feeling that I’d made it. That all the years of grinding, fighting, bleeding for this sport had been worth it.
Then my dad saw it.
Now that memory is tainted—like everything else he touches.
“I bet you feel real fucking special in that fancy new car, living your shiny fucking life,” his voicemail had spat into my ear. Back then, I still listened to all of them. “Don’t forget where you fucking came from, you ungrateful son of a bitch. And don’t forget to send some of that big-shot money back home—to the man who made you.”
The clock is ticking when I pull myself out of my head, and I know I’m already late. Our rookie Jax Callahan’s red Mercedes is parked a few spaces over, new paint gleaming under the rink’s security lights. Aside from that, the lot is mostly empty. Just a few other cars, ghosts in the early-morning dark.
I like it this way. I prefer the practice rink empty. That’s exactly why I come this early—before the noise, before the expectations, before I have to pretend I have my shit together.
There’s a black Jeep parked in the back lot, and I wonder if it’s Monroe’s. It’s early, and she’s apparently working here now. She must be somewhere in the building.
The Wolverines had seen a few of her competitions. Coach liked to promote unity between the rink athletes, so the Nationals team came to our games sometimes, too. I don’t know much about the exact sport of figure skating, but I know she hadit. The arena would go perfectly silent when she and her partner stepped out on the ice. It helps that she’s a complete knockout. Many Wolverines, myself included, had tried andfailedto take Monroe out.
I make a mental note to ask Coach what’s up with his elite athlete daughter scrubbing toilets at the rink.
Slapping my hands on the steering wheel, I pull my game face on. I had called Jax here to try to address some of our team issues outside of practice. I figured I could meet one-on-one with some of the guys who were weaker links on the team before working on the team as a whole.
Jax has been a problem since the season started. His talent wasn’t a problem, but combining young, cocky, and raw skill was. If I didn’t see so much of myself inhim, I might not hate him so much, but I had been a little shithead too. I’ve tried to be patient with him over the last year, but he’s reckless, and he has zero respect for leadership.
Especially mine.
Not that I’ve been a stellar leader this season—something Jax will no doubt remind me of in a few minutes. The team took a hit this year with the shake-up of our lineup. Between that, my own imposter syndrome, and my dad crawling back into my life, my head hasn’t been in the game at all.
I take a slow breath, shove my car door open, and slam it shut behind me. The wind bites at my face. Minnesota winters trained me for the cold, but Connecticut in January still stings.