The rink is quiet for exactly ten seconds after I lace up my skates. The moment I step onto the ice, gliding forward with ease, I feel the weight in my chest loosen. The anxiety has gotten a lot better. Muscle memory kicks in.
Rhodes watches me stretch, one foot propped against the boards. His navy-blue eyes track every move I make. He glides over to me, sending a spray of ice in my direction.
“Show-off,” I mutter.
He grins, unbothered. “Don’t be jealous, Monroe. You’ll catch up one day.”
I snort. “Please. You skate around chasing a glorified rubber ball. I jump into the air off my blades.”
He chuckles, feigning offense. “Maybe. But let’s be real, you wouldn’t last five minutes in full pads.”
I tilt my head, considering. “I think I could handle it. I’ve got better edge work than half your team.”
He huffs out a laugh, eyes dropping to where my leg is still stretched against the boards. His gaze lingers a second too long, sweeping over the length of my body before flicking back up.
“Yeah, but my sport requires contact,” he murmurs, his voice smooth, teasing. “And I don’t think you’d do so well handling that.”
I arch a brow, projecting confidence where there is none and ignoring the heat creeping up my neck. “I handled contact just fine last night.”
His grin sharpens. “Okay, hotshot, let’s see how you handle it later tonight.” There is a quiet moment between the two of us then, before the doors swing open and a flurry of kids comes tumbling into the rink, their excited chatter echoing off the walls.
Saved by the children, you could say.
I take a deep breath and square my shoulders as they pour onto the ice. Some are already confident, pushing forward with enthusiasm. Others clutch the boards like their life depends on it. I spot a little girl no older than six, her brown eyes wide as she stares at the ice like it might swallow her whole.
Rhodes crouches down near her, easygoing. “Hey, kiddo. First time on the ice?”
She nods, clutching the boards, knuckles white.
“You wanna know a secret?” he says, dropping his voice like he’s about to tell her something classified.
She nods again.
“The ice isn’t scary if you trust your skates.” He taps the toe of his own. “They’ll hold you up. And if they don’t?” He glances over his shoulder at me before pointing at his own chest. “Coach Rhodes is a pro at picking people up when they fall.”
I roll my eyes. “Rhodes, you’re literally paid to hit people and knock them over.”
“Semantics.” He shrugs. “Come on, kid. Let’s take a step together.”
He guides her forward, patient and steady, his gloved hands bracing her arms. She’s hesitant at first, but when she realizes he’s not going to let her fall, she takes her first tiny glide forward.
I already thought he was sexy, but Rhodes being actually, phenomenally good with little kids?Fuck me.
I turn to the rest of the group, clapping my hands. “All right, guys! Who’s ready to skate?”
A chorus ofme! me! me!echoes back at me, and I swallow a laugh.
We start simple, forward glides, getting comfortable on the ice. I demonstrate, pushing off with ease before circling back, and the kids attempt to copy me. Some wobble, some glide, some take a spill immediately, but no one cries. That’s a win.
Rhodes and I split the kids into two groups after warm-ups. He takes the ones interested in hockey to work on stops, turns, and balance drills, while I lead the figure-skating hopefuls through some fundamental edges, ankle control, and two-foot spins.
I scan the rink as I work through the drills. Rhodes is in the far corner with his group, his voice deep but even as he corrects one of the boys who keeps trying to push off too hard and nearly faceplants.
He catches me looking and smirks. Cocky bastard.
I roll my eyes, turning my attention back to my own students. “All right, let’s work on one-foot glides,” I announce. “This one takes balance, but it’s the first step to every jump and spin you’ll ever do.”
A little boy, maybe seven, raises his hand. “Coach Monroe, can you do a spin?”