Love on the Edge

3. Chapter Three

I wake up sore. The ache is dull, nothing unexpected, but it lingers. A reminder.

I shift beneath the sheets, and the memories slip in before I can stop them.

"We should go," Ethan says, voice even, unreadable. Not distant. Just matter-of-fact.

I stare up at the sky for a second longer, my body still warm, my skin still tingling, every muscle loose in a way I’ve never felt before. The stars look the same, but something in me feels different. Not changed—just… lighter.

"Yeah." I push myself up, smoothing my dress back down my thighs. Ethan shifts beside me, zipping his jeans, running a hand through his hair. He’s half-dressed, still a little breathless, but not in a hurry.

No awkwardness. No hesitation.

This is just one night. And that’s exactly how I want it.

Ethan stands first, reaching for the tailgate before pausing, looking at me like he’s checking for something. Trying to see if I regret what we did

"You good?"

I pull my jacket around me, nodding. "Yeah. You?"

"Yeah." A small smirk, barely there, before he hops down from the truck bed and reaches for his keys. Like this is nothing new to him. Like this is exactly what it was supposed to be.

I follow him into the cab, settling into the passenger seat as he starts the engine. The truck rumbles to life, the headlights cutting through the dark, the quiet settling in around us.

We don’t talk as he drives. Not because it’s weird. Not because there’s something to say.

Because there isn’t. Because this is exactly what I wanted.

And yet, for some reason, I don’t look at him. And he doesn’t look at me.

I can’t just lay here all day. I need to get up. I need to get ready.

Practice starts at 5 AM. It’s already 4:30.

I go straight to the bathroom and brush out my hair. When I look in the mirror, something feels off. I look… happy? Maybe. Lighter. Looser.

I tie my hair into a bun and splash cold water on my face. I need to focus. It was just one night. It doesn’t change anything. It can’t.

Today is a technique clinic. Jumps and spins. Something about them feels wrong lately, and I don’t have time for anything to be anything but perfect. I need to fix it. I need to get to work.

I arrive at the rink just before we’re supposed to step on the ice.

The cold air wraps around me the second I push through the doors, crisp and sharp, laced with the familiar scent of ice, rubber mats, and the faint metallic bite of skate blades waiting to be used. The overhead lights buzz softly, casting bright reflections across the untouched surface of the rink.

Harry Benson, one of the owners, is on the Zamboni, guiding it in slow, steady laps across the ice. He’s been doing this for decades—late sixties now, but still as steady as ever. I wave as I pass. Joanne, his wife, is in the office, unlocking doors, switching on lights, bringing the rink to life the way she has every morning for the last thirty years. They’ve owned this place forever, and it shows in the way they move, like the rink is as much a part of them as they are of it.

"Good morning, honey," she calls, her voice is warm and familiar.

"Good morning, Jo," I reply.

"Ready for practice?"

"Ready as I'll ever be."

She laughs as I head to the locker room, her voice trailing behind me as I push through the door.

The room is stark. Metal lockers line the walls, paint slightly worn from years of use, a few dented from careless kicks or slammed doors. The overhead lights are bright but harsh, casting sharp reflections off the smooth tile floor.

A row of benches sits in the center, scratched and scuffed from skates being tossed down carelessly. Along the far wall, there’s a bathroom with a couple of stalls and a row of sinks beneath a long mirror, its edges slightly fogged from years of humidity. The faint scent of disinfectant lingers in the air, mixed with something colder—rubber, ice, the familiar bite of the rink settling into every surface.

Nothing much to it. Just a space to change, lace up, and get to work.

I drop my bag onto the bench. The sound echoes in the empty room.

I grab my skates from my locker and take a seat. The repetitive motion of lacing up my skates is comforting. It’s the kind of thing I can do without thinking, the monotony of it giving me a brief break from everything else. Muscle memory. Habit. Routine.

I hear someone plop down next to me, the bench jolting slightly from the impact. I don’t need to look up—I already know who it is. No one else moves like that, all energy and ease, like the world is hers to take up space in. Like she belongs everywhere, including right here, right now, beside me.

Nina. “Hey, Val!” she says, grinning. She’s quick with her skates, hands moving efficiently like she’s already eager to get on the ice.

"Hey. Ready to skate?" I finish the last lace, tightening it just right before giving her a smile of my own. Despite the late night, I’m feeling more energized than I have in a while, it’s… refreshing.

"Always am!" She leans back slightly, stretching her arms. "So, I volunteered to help coach the beginner classes. Harry and Jo have so many sign-ups they had to add more classes. Think you can help?"

I pause, fingers tightening around my skate lace. Coaching? Kids? Not exactly my thing. I know I can help, but do I want to? Not really. I don’t have the patience. I don’t have the interest. I don’t even know if I have the ability. Some skaters love coaching, they love passing on what they know, love seeing the next generation improve under their guidance. That’s not me.

"I don’t think so, Nina. I’m not the coaching type."

She just shrugs. "Well, if you change your mind, I can always use the help."

That’s one of the things I love about Nina. She doesn’t push. She just lets me be. No judgment, no disappointment, just an open door if I ever decide to walk through it. Except of course, convincing me to go to that party last night.

Nina tilts her head slightly, her voice shifting, softening. "I didn’t see you last night. Did you come?"

I freeze for half a second—just half a second—but it’s enough. Heat creeps into my cheeks before I can stop it. I don’t look at her. I look at my skates instead, pretending I’m focused on adjusting them, like I need to buy myself a few extra seconds to answer.

"I did," I say, forcing casual into my voice. "But I left probably earlier than most."

Nina’s eyes narrow just slightly. "What? With who?"

My stomach clenches.

I could lie. I could change the subject, make a joke, deflect. But lying to Nina never works.

"Just a guy who drove me home," I say quickly. Too quickly. Too light.

She doesn’t miss a beat. Her eyebrows lift, and I swear I can hear her suppressing a laugh. "A guy?"

I laugh too, but it’s forced, awkward. "It’s not that big of a deal."

It is. Or at least, it feels like it is.

Because I don’t do this. This isn’t me. And the fact that I’m even dodging Nina’s questions, the fact that I’m acting like this is something I need to downplay? That’s not me either.

But I don’t want to tell her.

I don’t want to tell her what I did with a stranger. How reckless it was. How out of character it was.

I don’t regret it. That’s not the problem.

The problem is that it should have been simple. A one-night thing. No complications. No second thoughts. No lingering weight pressing against my ribs, making me feel like I stepped into something I don’t fully understand yet.

I don’t want to explain that to Nina. I don’t even want to explain it to myself.

So I don’t. I let the silence sit between us for a second too long before I force out a response.

"I’ll share it with you one day… maybe."

Even as I say it, I know I won’t. Not anytime soon.

Nina just laughs, shakes her head. "Alright, keep your secrets."

She doesn’t press. She knows I’ll talk when I’m ready. If I’m ever ready.

"Come on, ladies! We don't have all day!" a voice calls from outside the locker room.

"Let’s go, Val. Time to practice," Nina says.

We get up and head for the door. The chill hits us immediately, but I’m used to it by now. Technical training day. The one day every skater dreads.

Our coach, Nikolai Petrov, is a drill master. He trains the top three skaters and helps run the skating school program. He doesn’t take it easy on anyone. We all know what we’re in for.

Nina and I step onto the ice, and I spot Zara Hart in the corner stretching. While Nina started skating later, Zara and I have been skating since we were kids. We grew up pushing each other, constantly fighting to be the best.

Zara is petite but powerful, built for precision and speed. Her jet-black hair is pulled into a sleek ponytail, her striking green eyes locked in quiet focus as she leans into a deep stretch, one foot pressed against the boards. Even now, just warming up, she looks composed, deliberate, like she’s already calculating every movement before stepping onto the ice.

She’s wearing a fitted black athletic jacket over a bold-patterned leotard—bright colors, sharp lines, a perfect match for the way she skates. Her leggings hug the lean muscle in her legs, strength carved from years of training. Zara doesn’t waste energy on unnecessary chatter, not when there’s work to be done.

She lifts her head slightly, noticing us, and gives a small nod before adjusting her position. That’s all. No words. Just acknowledgement.

I roll my shoulders and push off the boards hard, legs burning as I dig deep into my crossovers. My strides are long, deliberate, every push slicing into the ice with force. The wind rushes against my face as I gather speed, but it's not enough.

"Faster!" Nikolai’s voice cuts through the rink like a blade, sharp and commanding.

I don’t hesitate. I drive forward, crossovers crisp, each push more powerful than the last. My skates cut deep into the ice, carving it with precision. I don’t need to look to know that I’m ahead. I can hear Nina and Zara behind me, their blades slashing against the ice, pushing to keep up.

We reach the boards. I pivot sharply, my body moving without thought, and launch into another sprint. I don’t feel the burn in my legs anymore—just the rhythm, the control, the sheer momentum that carries me forward.

"Good," Nikolai calls as I hit the opposite boards first. "Again."

I reset, push off hard, faster this time. Nina is keeping pace now, but I force myself to dig deeper, to go faster. I hit the final crossover and stop abruptly, ice spraying at my feet.

"That is what I want," Nikolai says, his gaze locked on me before flicking to the others. "The rest of you, push harder. Valeria should not be this far ahead."

I glance at Nina and Zara, breathing hard, but they don’t look annoyed—just determined.

"Show-off," Nina mutters under her breath, but there’s a grin on her face.

"Not my fault," I shrug, smirking back at her. "Try harder." She nudges me with her elbow before skating toward center ice.

"Edge drills," Nikolai commands. "Control. Depth. No wasted movement."

I drop into my edges, carving deep, my body shifting effortlessly between inside and outside edges. My weight stays perfectly centered, my movements fluid. Nikolai watches me closely, but for once, he says nothing.

I know what that means. Approval.

I glance over at Nina and Zara, both strong skaters, but I know my technique is cleaner. My control is sharper. My foundation has always been my greatest strength.

"Stronger knees," Nikolai calls, but it’s not directed at me. Zara adjusts her form. Nina grits her teeth and deepens her edge.

We move into turns, flowing through three-turns, rockers, counters. I barely think as I move, letting muscle memory take over. This is where I thrive— technical, clean. Every movement is intentional.

"Jumps," Nikolai calls next.

I reset, launching into a loop jump, my blade biting into the ice as I land cleanly. I barely have to check my exit before transitioning into another, then another.

Nina lands hers with ease. Zara’s is strong but slightly tilted forward on the landing.

I step into a flip jump, my arms tight, my rotation fast, my landing solid. Then a lutz—deep edge, explosive height, clean check-out. I feel Nikolai watching, analyzing, waiting for something to correct. But there’s nothing.

"Axels," he calls.

I already know the drill. Takeoff, arms tight, fast rotation, land strong.

I go first. I launch into my double axel, air position locked, rotation perfect. The ice meets my blade perfectly, my landing silent, my exit controlled.

"Excellent," Nikolai says. "Again."

I don’t hesitate. I push off again, stronger, faster.

"Triple Toe?" Nina teases.

I smirk. "Watch me."

This time I land with a slight wobble, but nothing that would cost me in competition.

Nikolai nods. "Good. Spins."

Nikolai calls out the next drill, and I move into a spin. They’re clean, controlled, exactly how they should be.

But something about it feels hollow.

The technique is there, the execution solid, but it’s just that—execution. A sequence of perfected movements without anything behind them. And I know—I know—that’s not enough.

"Combination," Nikolai calls.

I flow through a jump into a back camel spin, my arms extending in perfect form. It’s strong, technically flawless. But I already know what’s coming.

"Faster rotation," Nikolai says, then after a pause, "More expression."

I don’t react, just nod, even though I already know it’s useless. I need more expression, more artistry, more feeling.

I can land every jump, execute every spin with perfect placement. But the second I’m asked to sell it—to feel it—it all falls apart.

I glance at Nina and Zara. Nina’s spins aren’t as strong as mine, but she sells them. She makes them look effortless, like she’s telling a story on the ice. Zara has a way of extending her arms just enough, of tilting her head at the perfect moment to make everything look intentional.

I know how to do the movements. But I don’t know how to make people feel something when I do.

"Again," Nikolai calls.

I exhale, push into another spin. This time, I try—I try to extend my arms more gracefully, to make the movement look natural. But I can already feel it. It’s forced. It doesn’t feel like me.

I land my exit, and Nikolai watches me for a long moment before speaking.

"Technically perfect," he says. "But you are not an artist, Valeria. You are a machine. You need to be both."

It shouldn’t sting. I already know this about myself. But somehow, it does.

I skate toward Nina, slowing my breathing. She bumps my shoulder. "He’s just grumpy. You were incredible."

"Technically," I mutter.

Zara glides beside us. "I’ll take your edges and jumps if you take my arms and face."

I let out a breath of laughter. "Deal."

"Cool down," Nikolai calls. "Then stretch."

I take a slow lap around the rink, feeling the exhaustion settle into my legs. Every drill today, I nailed. I was out in front, landing everything, showing exactly what I can do.

But none of it matters if I can’t make people feel it.

I push harder into my final strokes, cutting into the ice. Maybe I don’t need to. Maybe jumps and spins should be enough.

But Nikolai’s voice lingers in my mind.

You are not an artist, Valeria. You are a machine. You need to be both.

Practice ends, and we are exhausted. Muscles burning, sweat cooling, breath still coming fast. We drop into stretches, letting the last of the tension seep from our bodies. The doors open, the familiar hum of the Zamboni kicking in as Harry moves onto the ice.

Normal. Expected. Routine.

Until—

"Hey, sis."

A man’s voice. Deep. Familiar. Too familiar.

I freeze. That voice. I know that voice.

That’s the voice that murmured against my skin, rough and hungry. The same voice that growled my name when his hands were gripping my waist, his body pressing into mine, his breath hot against my ear.

No. No. No.

"Hey, big brother," Nina responds.

No.

Nina’s brother.

I stare straight ahead, my body rigid, my heartbeat hammering against my ribs, but I already know what’s coming.

"Val! Come here! I want you to meet my brother!"

Before I can move, before I can think, Nina grabs my wrist and pulls me toward the open double doors. My body stumbles forward, my brain stuck.

I see him before he sees me.

Ethan.

The same Ethan whose hands had traced fire down my spine. The same Ethan whose mouth had left me breathless. The same Ethan I was supposed to never see again.

He turns just as Nina throws her arms around him, squeezing him tight in the way only a little sister can.

And then his eyes meet mine.

A flicker of something—recognition then realization. A pause, sharp and fleeting. A single breath held a second too long before his face smooths over. Meanwhile, my entire body feels like it’s short-circuiting.

Nina beams between us, completely oblivious.

"Val! This is my big brother, Ethan! Ethan, this is Val. I can’t believe you never got the chance to meet. I meant to introduce you two at the party!"

No one says a thing.

I can’t move, can’t even breathe.

My stomach drops and my pulse pounds so loud I can barely hear anything else. The cold air feels sharper now, the rink suddenly too small, too bright, too much.

Ethan doesn’t react—not really. He stands there, hands in his pockets, shoulders loose and casual. Like this is just another introduction. Like this is just another day. Like this is just nothing.

But it’s not nothing.

Because I feel it. The same pull I felt last night. The same low heat curling in my stomach, sharp and immediate. He’s still devastatingly handsome—tall, broad, built like he’s spent his entire life working with his hands. His dark hair is slightly tousled, his jaw sharp, his mouth a little too perfect. And his eyes—those deep, unreadable eyes that had locked on mine in the dark, just before he kissed me like he was starving.

That mouth was on mine. That body was pressed against me. I only knew his name. Nothing else.

Nina had talked about her older brother before, but I never paid attention, never asked for details. He’s married. When he’s not at work he’d spending time with his daughter.

Now I know exactly who he is. And he knows exactly what we did. Wait, MARRIED? My thoughts start to spiral, I’d slept with a married man.

I swallow hard. Nope. Not thinking about that.

I need to say something, anything. But my mouth refuses to work, my brain refuses to function, and all I can do is stand here, staring, as reality crashes down on me.

Ethan Crosse. Nina’s older brother.

The man who had his hands on me. The man who had me gasping, unraveling, breaking beneath him.

I slept with Nina’s older brother. Nina's married older brother.

This isn’t happening. It can’t be happening.

But it is.

And there’s no way out.

Holy. Shit.