“It’s a toe pick, and I’m not doing that.” I reach for her to stop her from moving away from me, but she skates out of reach and my hand grabs air instead.
“Just a regular spin, then. Something other than skating forward. We’re going for progress here.” It’s my turn to throw her an exasperated look.
“Hey, I’ve been skating backward, too.” She’s indignant.
“Monroe,” I chide. “Come on. The clinic is in less than two months. Let’s see what we’re working with.” I see her contemplating my words.
Right where I want you.
“Fuck you,” she mutters as she skates past.Typical.
She exhales, slow and steady, but I can see it—the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers flex like she’s trying to shake out the nerves.
She’s thinking about it. Then she takes off, skating down the ice, giving herself some momentum.
I hold my breath, eyes tracking every movement.
Her blade digs into the ice, shifting her weight onto her right foot. She pushes off, lifting onto the ball of her foot, and suddenly she’s spinning.
The world blurs around her—tight, controlled rotations, smooth and effortless. Her arms are tucked in close, the auburn strands in her braid reflecting the fluorescent lights above us.
She slows, arms lowering, skates carving a perfect edge as she lands back into a steady glide.
Monroe stops. Breathes. Looks right at me, and for the first time since she stepped on the ice, she doesn’t look nervous.
I grin, arms crossed, watching her process what just happened.
“Atta girl.” The words leave my mouth before I can stop them.
Monroe rolls her eyes, but she can’t hide the small, almost disbelieving smile tugging at her lips.
She did it.
And now, I want more. I’m greedy.
“All right, hotshot.” I skate forward, my mouth quirking up as her gaze snaps to me. “Now that we’ve established that turns aren’t going to kill you, let’s see a jump.”
Her entire body goes rigid.Yeah. That’s what I thought.
The spin was one thing, figure skating one-oh-one. But she’s going to have to jump eventually.
“I’m not ready.”
“You won’t know when you’re ready unless you actually try.”
She flicks her eyes to me, a decision made, then skates forward, slow and deliberate. Measured, likeshe’s trying to trick her body into believing it can do this before her brain catches up.
Her hands flex. Her shoulders lock.
I know what’s happening. I see it in the way her breathing tightens, the slight hitch in her step. Her mind is fighting her. The memory of her fall, the injury, the aftermath—it’s still there, lingering, waiting to drag her down with it. I’ve watched guys in hockey go through similar struggles after major injuries.
It sucks to think of her struggling all by herself. Every time I’ve seen Monroe since she’s come back to the rink, she’s been alone. The Monroe I remember was constantly surrounded by people. I make anothermental note to ask Coach why the hell Monroe doesn’t have anyone making sure she’s okay.
My jaw locks. My fingers curl into fists at my sides, and my gaze follows her increasing speed, tracking the slice of her blades.
Come on, Abrams.
Her knee bends. Her blade carves into the ice. I hold my breath.