“Tell me something, Monroe,” he says, flipping around to skate backward in front of me. He shoots me a grin.
“What do you want to know?”
“Favorite color?”
For some reason, the silly, mundane question takes me by surprise. I think on it, a tiny smile creeping up despite my quickness to press my lips together.
“Come on, Abrams. It’s not that hard! What’s your favorite color?”
“Green,” I say. He raises his eyebrows at me. “Not like…lime green or something stupid like that,” I say defensively. “Like a dark, olive kind of green.”
Rhodes nods, like that answer is acceptable. “Mine is royal blue,” he offers.
“I didn’t ask,” I say, skating past him.
He just chuckles. “Favorite kind of music?”
“Ragey, feminist pop,” I call back. “Or early 2000s boy bands.” He barks a laugh. His energy is contagious and I have to bite my lip to keep from smiling back.
“Same,” he shouts across the rink.
“You also like feminist pop?” I tease back, despite myself.
“I was referring to the Backstreet Boys,” he says, and now it’s my turn to laugh. “But I can get on board with ragey, feminist pop, too, if that’s what you like.” He comes to an abrupt stop in front of me. I skate backwards, away from the closeness of his body.
“You can run, Abrams. But you’ve gotta try a jump.”
My breath stutters, harshly brought out of the little bubble we were in and back to reality. “I can’t.”
“That’s quitter talk,” he chides. “And you are not a quitter.”
I bark out a humorless laugh. “I think an entire Olympic committee would disagree with you there, Rhodes.”
He skates up to me, close—too close—until my back presses against the rink boards. His arms cage me in, palms braced on the boards beside my head, his breath warm despite the cold.
I suck in a sharp breath. I trace his jawline with my eyes, moving up his face at the way his hair drops over his forehead.
“Monroe.” His voice drops lower, rougher. My core clenches at the sound of my name in his mouth. “You’ve gotta stop being so fucking hard on yourself.”
“I don’t know how,” I whisper, vulnerability escaping my carefully crafted exoskeleton. “I failed. I lost everything. What else is there to be but hard on myself?”
I flick my eyes away, but he’s not letting me go that easily. His hand drops and grabs my chin, lifting my face back up to his and forcing eye contact. God, he really is pretty.
“You had a serious injury. Your entire life changed. Butthatis not your fault. It’s something that happenedtoyou, notbecauseof you.”
I feel the words like a blade, cold and true.
I try to turn away again but his fingers skim my chin, tilting my face back up. I hate how easily I let him do it.
“You are back on the ice.” His voice is firm, leaving no room for argument. “You didn’t let it kill you. No matter how you come back, no matter what level you skate at now—you are still on the fucking ice, Monroe. And that is not quitting.”
I swallow hard, my throat tight.
His gaze doesn’t waver. “Do you understand me?”
I nod. Once. Twice. My pulse hammers in my ears as navy-blue eyes will the truth of what he is saying into my very soul.
“Good.” He finally steps back, clearing the space between us, but his eyes stay locked on mine. “Now go do the jump.”