“What the fuck, Rhodes?” There is venom in her voice. “Don’t screw with me.” Okay, maybe this was too far but I’m not backing down now. She’s pissed, but that just means her attention is on me and, apparently, I like it there.
“I need a clinic partner who will skate with me if I’m going to be teaching twenty-five little kids how to stay off their asses on the ice,” I snap back now, no teasing. If she wants a fight, I’ll give one to her. “This isn’t about you,” I continue. “So if you’re not going to do it, I’ll just ask Natalie.”
Her eyes flash.There she is.The knowledge that Natalie took Monroe’s Olympic spot had been national news—it would have been nearly impossible to miss if you were on social media at all. So it was a cheap shot, using her rival against her, but if it works, it works.
She glares at me and slumps down onto the bench. Then her gaze cuts back up, sharp and dangerous. I smirk. I’ve almost got her. I canfeelit.
Come on, Monroe. Get off your ass and onto the ice with me where you belong.
“Three minutes and twenty-three seconds.” I shrug, casually, checking the time on my watch.
“You’re serious?” If looks could kill, I’d be in a hundred bloody pieces on this ice.
“Yup. Two minutes and fifteen seconds.” Her internal battle is fully displayed on her face.
“One minute, Abrams.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she mutters and stands up.So close.
“Forty-one seconds,” I taunt again, skating backward on the ice. Another check of my watch. “Twenty-two seconds.”
Her mouth thins into a line, focused. She steps forward and stands in front of the threshold. She just needs to take one step.
She lifts her left foot, crosses the gate—and her skate blade meets the ice.
The other follows. She looks up at me triumphantly, the ghost of a grin playing on the corners of her mouth.
“Hah,” she sneers.
“Technically, your time was up twenty-seven seconds ago.” My grin is feral as I glide up to her, stopping close enough to make her tilt her head up to look at me.
My hand goes out naturally, as if to steady her. She doesn’t need it. Her eyes flash to mine, determination steeled behind them.
“Shut up, Rhodes.”
Then she skates.
Chapter Nine
Monroe
My skates slice through the ice, one foot after the other. I’m slow, leisurely, trying to feel out the blades on my feet. It’s incredible how muscle memory works. If I shut down the part of my brain that is screaming at me to relive my fall, for a second it’s like I never even left the ice at all.
Inhale. Exhale.
My stint in therapy was brief, but the breathing techniques are tattooed into my subconscious.
I’m trying not to feel Rhodes’ gaze on me while I skate. His navy-blue eyes are boring into the back of my head, and I know if I turn around I’d find him there, arms crossed.
I haven’t made a full lap yet and the panic is simmering, waiting. It’s a living thing coiled tight in my chest, sitting heavy behind my ribs, whispering,This isn’t safe. This isn’t safe. This isn’t safe.
Another inhale. Another exhale. I can see my breath in the crisp air of the arena.
When I finally work up the courage to face Rhodes, I’m absolutely correct—deep, impossibly blue eyes, arms crossed, stationary in the center of the ice. There is caution in his gaze, but also a hint of…pride? His hands are fisted, like he’s trying to keep himself from stepping in if I need him.
I don’t feel like unpacking that right now.
I push forward, picking up speed. The first turn approaches and I sail through the curve. The reality of being back on the ice threatens to overwhelm every one of my senses.