“Gorgeous spiral,” Coach Moreau says, her accent thick despite the airy quality of her voice.
Celine Moreau, Canadian bronze medalist and one half of a very famous brother-sister pairs team, is the current pairs team coach. Only two pairs currently train as part of the Waterfell team, plus the eight singles. Today, she’s the only coach present for first season practice; really, it’s more of a warm-up skate mixed with team bonding.
My coach is strangely absent, but I try not to think about that. Try not to let that anxiety even take root.
Instead, I find myself, unfortunately, thinking about Rhys.
His massive hands, his stupid pretty doe eyes and dimpled smile. Everything. I’m distracted—sloppy, if anything, and I know Coach Kelley wouldn’t be pleased, that I’d get reprimanded and do it again until perfect. I’d prefer that, it’s what I need, so I let the compliments roll off my shoulders, passing my ears as background noise.
Eventually, the practice expires, the entire team circling up for a quick meeting. I’ve got blinders on, and thanks to Rhys’ extravagant gift that I begged him to take back last skate, music still plays through the fancy headphones in my ears—which is the only reason I don’t hear him approach.
He plucks a headphone from my ear.
“This is sex music,” Luc whispers. I elbow him discreetly, still pretending to listen to the encouragement from his coach.
Luc Laroux is a handsome—and unfortunately, skilled—pairs skater. Had he stopped dating his partners he might’ve been on his Olympic tour right now. Yet, he’s here, with a set of skills that the other pairs team obviously envy, and a continuous heartbreaker reputation.
Currently, he’s found himself partnerless, again.
“I saw Rose on a magazine cover the other day. Still too proud to grovel?”
His jaw clenches tight, all mirth melting from his face at the mention of his long-time partner, the now popular Olympic prospect currently plastered everywhere in the skating world alongside her new endearing partner.
The ice king himself almost looks jealous.
“Aw,” I whimper. “Do you miss her?”
There’s a flash in his eyes, before he covers it with a wicked smirk that I know has gotten him under many women’s skirts
“Why? Are you offering to be my new partner?”
I fake gag. “Over my dead body.”
He snickers, hidden under the loud double clap from Moreau signaling the end of practice.
“You sure? I need to practice my lifts. Was looking for a partner.”
I roll my eyes as we slug slowly behind the rest of the team. The innuendo is one I’m unfortunately familiar with. Usually, I’m quite repetitive in my motto of not mixing business with pleasure, but in this case I have already mixed. Which makes it easier to say yes.
And yet, I’m hesitating.
And a stupid pair of brown eyes are taking over my entire brain.
So I shake my head and shove Luc’s shoulder. “I’ve got to get home.”
It’s a pancake breakfast morning, which, by my brother’s standards, assures it will be a good day.
Ms. B, our neighbor who often helps us, offered to watch them today. I don’t usually need her on the weekends before noon, but Coach Kelley called a last minute practice at the other rink in a midnight email.
Which means I need to be there a few hours early to make sure my current jump combo—and my spiral—are as clean as possible. I’m desperate for this year to be different; starting with not disappointing Coach Kelley.
But then, I see his car.
Emotions soar through me too quickly to hone in on just one—anger, frustration, fear, worry… excitement and anticipation.
I want to see him, I realize, as much as I want to scream at him to get out of my rink and out of my head.
You can’t touch him. Stop it.
I try to chant it, as I march into the rink and down to the locker rooms ready to be firm. To tell him we can’t skate together anymore, for my sanity.
Fuck.
He’s laying against one set of lockers, bent and sweating, skates on, legs splayed out as he hefts breaths like he’s been drowning.
My bag falls off my shoulder. My anger falls away into nothing.
The sound alerts him, brown eyes shooting towards me in panic—then slumping half-lidded as he realizes it’s just me.
“We have to stop meeting like this,” he mutters, his plump mouth arching into what I assume to be some sort of smile, even if it’s barely there in exhaustion. My stomach hurts. Finding him like this again… a week before he’s going to play—
My heart feels like it’s lodged in my throat.
“Rhys,” I barely get out, my hand reaching for his face. It’s only as he circles my wrist that I realize I’m shaking.
“Worried about me, Gray?”
“Terrified,” I admit. “I thought it was better.”
“S-so did I.” He groans, his head slumping into my palm, as if it’s the only thing keeping his neck upright. “Today is just a bad day.”
“I should’ve brought you pancakes,” I say, not realizing how insane that sounds on its own.
He laughs, breathless but happy. “Please explain that one.”
“Liam thinks when I make pancakes, it’ll be a good day.”
He smiles at me, doe eyes glittering, dimples deep. “I’ll try that one next time. I bet you make the best pancakes, though.”
“I’ll make you some, sometime,” I whisper, sitting next to him as he wipes off his forehead and leans back. “You okay?”
He nods. Sitting up, he takes a few gulps of his water. “Yeah. But just a fair warning, I will take you up on that. I love breakfast food.”
“I thought you liked savory over sweet.”
“I like anything when it comes to you,” he confesses and my heart clenches.
His hand dips into his pocket, handing me a headphone. I realize, only then, that he’s got my old pair in his ears, that he was listening to music.
“I couldn’t find mine fast enough,” he sighs.
I take the proffered earbud, letting the cord link between us even as he hands me his phone to select the music.
