The cold air. The overhead lights. The whoosh of my blades. The reflection of my body in the plastic on the rink’s edge. I watch myself, mirrored back at me.
The reflected image on the ice knocks the wind out of me.
I used to know that girl.
Skating was like breathing. From the moment I could walk, I was on skates—on the ice with my dad during his hockey practices, in the rink for my own figure-skating sessions. For hours every day, training, skating, learning. Practicing tricks I knew other girls couldn’t do.
Skating was never just a hobby for me. If I was going to skate, I was going to be the best. When I was a kid, I’d cut Olympic rings out of magazines and taped them to my bedroom wall.
And it wasn’t just some bullshit pipe dream. I had real, actual talent and I had gottenso close.
My mom had watched from the sidelines, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, cataloging every mistake so I could be better. She’d drilled perfection into my verybones. Monroe Abrams was either the best, or she was nothing. You can imagine why the loss of my success was so crippling to the both of us.
She managed everything—coaches, choreography, music, endorsements, sponsorships. She was my manager far above being my mother. It was her full-time job and she relished it. My success was her success. So when my ankle broke, and I couldn’tbethat success anymore?
Elaine took it almost harder than I did. She sobbed in the room when they told me I’d never skate at a competitive level again. I had to comfortherin the wake of the most devastating news of my entire life.
The second my spot on the Nationals team was pulled—the moment the Olympic dream officially died—she was gone. She hasn’t checked in once.
I inhale sharply as my chest locks up. Thoughts of my injury and my mom and my mess of a life flood my brain, and the breathing technique is rendered useless. I jerk to a stop, my skates screeching against the ice, but the panic doesn’t stop with me. It slams into me at full fucking force.
My clothes are too tight. I’m too hot.
I can’t breathe.
I rip at my sweatshirt, clawing at the fabric.
“Get it off.” The words rasp out of my throat, barely there, just a hoarse whisper.
“Get it off—” My voice rises, desperate, panicked. The material is stuck. Twisting. Tight around my throat.
My blood is loud, rushing in my ears, and I squeeze my eyes shut to stop my tunneling vision.
“Monroe?” Rhodes’ voice is distant.
“Get it off!”I hear myself screaming as if I’m floating. I yank harder at the hem of my shirt and feel hands on my arms, lifting it over my head, tugging the sweatshirt up. My sports bra is soaked with sweat.
I drop to the ice, on all fours, then turn flat on my back. The ceiling spins. The fluorescent lights stab through my skull even though my eyes are shut.
My arm slams over my face.Block it out. Block it all out.
More inhaling, more exhaling.
I’m aware of a soft weight on the top of my head, gently stroking my hair.
After what feels like an eternity, my heart rate begins to slow and the panic starts to retreat. A shadow flickers in the side of my vision, blinking out some of the lights.
Rhodes.
I peek open one eye at him. He doesn’t say anything. He’s down on the ice with me, with his legs crossed.
“Well, that was fun,” he murmurs softly, pulling his hands back into his lap and tilting his head at me. “Need me to count to ten while you breathe?”
“Fuck you,” I grit out, closing my eyes again. I am aware I’m lashing out, but that’s what happens when I’m embarrassed. And right now, I’m really fucking embarrassed.
Rhodes just chuckles. “Maybe later, Abrams.” My stomach does a flip at his insinuation. I can hear the smile in his voice, and I reach over to smack him in the leg. If only he wasn’t so ridiculously pretty.
With a groan, I push myself up to a sitting position. My body has cooled down now, and the ice is too cold against my back.