5. Chapter Five
Instead of thinking about that night, I bury myself in training.
I lose count of the days that pass. I just do whatever it takes to avoid Ethan Crosse.
He infuriates me. Not just because of what he said, not just because it hurt. But because I know I went too far. I know I shouldn’t have dragged his marriage into it.
I feel awful about that. I know I need to apologize, but I’m not ready to face him.
So, I do what I always do. I push myself until there’s nothing left to feel. Until exhaustion drowns out everything else. I wrap my ankles, tape them, and lace my skates so tight my feet tingle. Whatever it takes to stay upright. Whatever it takes to stay in control.
"Okay, girly! Lunch time," Nina sing-songs, stepping into the room with her little lunch box, looking far too cheerful for how drained I feel.
Part of training at the rink means being involved—helping out in the box office, doing chores around the rink, really whatever they need. So, on Saturdays I practically live here. It’s really not that bad.
Thankfully, I don’t have to do anything with the skating school, that’s all Nina. I can only imagine the chaos that’s waiting for her out there.
"You gonna eat?" Nina asks, already unzipping her lunch bag.
"Yeah," I say automatically. "I’m just gonna wash my hands and face. You go ahead. You have to be on the ice soon."
She nods, already digging into her food, and I slip away to the bathroom.
The cold water feels sharp against my skin as I splash it over my face. When I straighten, I catch my reflection in the mirror.
My landings today were sloppy. Too much impact. Too much drag. I’m skating seven days a week now that Nationals are closing in.
I have to stay focused. I have to be lighter. Faster. More efficient.
Lunch isn’t going to help with that.
So I skip it.
I’m sorting through papers in the box office when Nina bursts in, out of breath.
"Joanne, there are two beginner classes, but I’m the only coach assigned," she says frantically.
Joanne looks up from her desk, frowning. "Oh shoot. I forgot the city added a class. How many kids?"
"Sixteen." Nina exhales hard. "Too many for me to give them individual attention. And the parents are already getting impatient."
Joanne sighs, rubbing her temples. "Okay, let me try to call another coach in. I can see if anyone’s available—"
"I can do it," I say, cutting her off.
Joanne blinks. "Really?"
"Yeah," I shrug. "You’re in a lurch. I can do it."
A beat of silence. Then— "Thank you so much, Valeria," Joanne says, relief flooding her voice.
Nina exhales like the weight of the world has been lifted off her shoulders. "Seriously, Val, you’re a lifesaver."
I nod, already moving. Helping. Staying busy. Doing what I always do.
Because it’s easier than stopping.
Easier than thinking.
Easier than feeling.
Easier than facing the fact that Nationals are creeping closer, and for the first time in my life, I don’t know if I’m good enough.
I never took my skates off, so I head straight to the ice, sliding off my guards before stepping on. The familiar bite of the blade against the surface sends a small shiver up my spine, but I push it away.
Nina looks overwhelmed. I can see it in the way she waves her arms, trying to corral the group. The kids aren’t listening, they’re skating everywhere, weaving in and out, giggling, and bumping into each other. One almost topples over, and Nina lunges to grab them just in time.
I skate up to her, and as soon as I do, a hush settles over the class.
It’s not me. It’s my presence. My demeanor. I have that effect on people, I always have. I don’t have to raise my voice. I don’t have to tell them to pay attention.
They just do.
“Thanks, Val,” Nina says, a little breathless.
“No problem. Let’s just get class going.” I fold my arms, scanning the group as Nina starts running through the warm-up drills.
I’m here, but I’m not.
My body feels light, disconnected, like I’m floating somewhere between exhaustion and habit. The rink sounds blur—Nina’s voice, the scrape of skates, the occasional burst of laughter from the younger kids. My fingers twitch at my sides, a phantom ache settling in my limbs, but I ignore it.
Then I see her.
A little girl.
She’s small, practically buzzing with energy, moving with a kind of quiet determination that sets her apart. Her blonde ponytail bounces with every stride, stray waves slipping free and catching the rink lights. Her dress is bright, covered in glitter and color, bold in a way that makes her impossible to ignore.
But it’s not her appearance that holds my attention.
It’s the way she skates.
While the others follow the drills in loose, wobbly strides, she’s doing something else. Each time she falters she adjusts, focuses, and pushes herself.
Her edges cut into the ice, some turns too deep, others too shallow. She isn’t afraid of speed, isn’t afraid to push past what’s comfortable, but there’s no hesitation in her movements. She lifts into a one-foot glide, holding it longer than she should be able to before shifting into a shaky crossover. It’s too advanced for this class, too much for what Nina’s teaching.
But she doesn’t stop.
She isn’t showing off. She isn’t playing.
She’s skating like it’s the only thing that matters.
She miscalculates slightly. Her balance wavers, her edges slip, but she recovers before she falls. Her brows furrow, lips pressing together, frustration flickering across her face.
She hates failing.
I know that feeling. Because I was the same way.
I glance at the other kids, their laughter filling the rink, their movements easy and unbothered. They skate because it’s fun. Because it’s new. Because they have nothing to prove.
I should be helping the others. I should be making sure Nina isn’t overwhelmed, but my focus narrows. I don’t mean to ignore the rest of the class, don’t mean to leave Nina handling a dozen kids on her own, but luckily, some of the older skaters step in, guiding the others through the basics.
It gives me a moment. Just one.
And I take it.
I push off, gliding toward her, watching the way she leans forward, arms stiff, every muscle in her body focused on getting it right. She doesn’t notice me at first, too locked into the challenge in front of her.
I match her pace, skating beside her, waiting for her to react.
Her green eyes flick toward me for a second before snapping back ahead. Determined. Focused. But I catch the flicker of excitement, the way she straightens slightly, like the presence of someone else makes this more than just practice.
It makes it a challenge.
She speeds up.
So I do too.
Her breath quickens as she digs into her crossovers, edges cutting harder, movements sharper. I let her take the lead, let her feel it for a few seconds—until I push off harder, overtaking her in smooth, effortless strokes.
She exhales sharply, frustration flashing across her face.
I smirk. “You almost had me.”
She huffs, cheeks flushed, but she’s grinning. “I wasn’t done yet.”
I slow, extending a hand. “Then let’s do it again.”
She takes in a firm, confident grip.
“Alright,” I say, “but this time, keep your knees softer when you push off.”
She nods quickly, already eager, already in motion. She’s light on her feet, but her technique is raw—too much power in the wrong places, not enough control in others. She gets ahead of herself, chasing speed instead of precision.
I let her go for a few strides, watching the way her ponytail bounces with each push, the way she throws herself into her crossovers too soon, edges slicing deeper than they should.
She stumbles, a misstep that throws her balance for half a second.
I catch up instantly, my stride steady, my presence beside her enough to make her refocus. “Relax,” I say, voice even, just loud enough for her to hear over the scrape of skates.
She exhales, but this time, her shoulders drop slightly, her arms loosen.
“Again,” I say. “Don’t force it. Feel it.”
She doesn’t argue, just pushes forward. This time, her movements smooth out, the rough edges of her technique sharpening, refining, as she matches my rhythm.
The others are still doing their drills in the background, but here, it feels like just the two of us.
She watches me carefully, mirroring my weight shifts, pushing off—not just with speed, but with control.
She isn’t just skating; she’s studying every movement, every shift of weight, every mistake and correction. She watches the ice the way I used to, not just for where she’s going but for what she can learn. She wants to be better, to push herself.
The realization settles deep in my chest, something unspoken rising to the surface, something I haven’t felt in years. I remember chasing after my coaches on the ice, desperate to prove I could keep up, that I belonged.
And now, she’s chasing after me.
I slow, testing her reaction. She slows too, unconsciously mirroring me, her instincts already adjusting.
I meet her eyes. “Better.”
Her entire face lights up, green eyes shining like I just handed her a trophy. “Again?” she asks, breathless.
I nod. “Again.”
And we keep skating.
Time flies by, the minutes blurring together as the class moves through their drills. I don’t pay attention to the clock, but I can feel it in the way the kids are slowing down, their initial energy fading into tired but satisfied movements. Nina’s voice rises and falls over the sound of blades scraping against the ice, her instructions mixing with laughter and the occasional stumble.
The little girl is still skating, still pushing herself harder than the others, still chasing something only she can see.
Before I can think about it too much, Nina claps her hands, her voice cutting through the last few moments of practice.
"Okay, kids! Class is over," Nina calls, clapping her hands.
She skates over, still slightly out of breath from trying to keep up with everyone.
"Hey! Val, I see you met my niece, Cassidy," she says, grinning.
I blink, my chest tightening. "Cassidy? As in Cassidy Crosse?"
"Yeah," Nina says. "CC has wanted to learn how to skate forever! Ethan finally gave in and let her take classes."
Ethan’s daughter.
My stomach drops.
I look down at CC, who’s still beaming, completely unaware of the way my world just tilted.
"Nice to meet you, CC," My throat feels tight. "I gotta go."
Her face falls just slightly, but she nods, accepting it without protest.
I hesitate, something twisting in my chest. I don’t know what to say, don’t know how to make this moment mean what it feels like it should. But I can give her this—one thing I wish someone had told me when I was her age.
"You did great out there," I say, my voice quieter, but steady. "Keep skating."
Her eyes brighten, her small hands gripping the barrier beside her. "Really?"
I nod. "Yeah. You’ve got something special. Don’t stop. But uh… I gotta go."
I don’t wait for her to respond. I don’t wait for Nina to question it.
My heart is pounding, my breath too shallow, my body suddenly too aware of itself in a way I can’t explain.
Ethan’s daughter? No way. I can’t do this.
I step off the rink, peeling off my gloves with a little too much force, but that’s when I see him.
Ethan. Standing there. Watching me.
His expression is unreadable at first, but when I meet his gaze, I recognize it immediately.
He looks pissed.
And he has every right to be.
I consider walking past him, pretending I don’t see him, but I know that won’t work. It’s better to just face it, to bite the bullet before it gets worse.
I make my way toward him, feeling every second of the distance between us.
"Ethan," I start, forcing myself to meet his eyes. "I've been thinking about what I said a lot. I’m so sorry. That was below the belt. I was hurt, and I didn’t mean it."
For a moment, he says nothing.
His jaw tenses, his lips press into a thin line. Then, finally—
"I’m sorry too," he says. "I shouldn’t have said what I said either. I was mad."
That’s it. No drawn-out lecture. No need to make me grovel. Just an acknowledgment, an understanding that we both went too far.
Before either of us can say anything else, Nina barrels into the moment, full force as usual.
"Good, I caught you!" She grins like she’s been waiting for this exact opportunity. "We’re having a family dinner at my parents’ house tonight. I know I’ve asked you before, and you always say no. Please! I really want you to come, and CC agrees."
I hesitate, glancing at Ethan.
I’ve never gone before. I’ve always had an excuse. Too busy, too tired, too focused on skating. But maybe I should go this time.
"Okay. I’ll come," I say, surprising even myself.
Nina squeals, literally squeals, and happy-dances her way to the locker room before I can change my mind.
I turn back to Ethan.
It feels like a fresh start. Like maybe this can be different.
"We’ll talk later," I say, offering him the out.
"No need," he replies, a flicker of something in his eyes I can’t quite place. "All is forgiven, Valeria. See you tonight."
Then he looks down at CC, who has been watching this entire exchange with careful curiosity.
"Come on, squirt. Let’s head out," he says, ruffling her blonde hair.
"Thank you, Ms. Blaze! I’ll see you next week!" CC chirps, grinning up at me.
I nod, forcing a smile, but my chest still feels tight.
Ethan and CC walk off together, her small hand swinging in his as she chatters excitedly, practically bouncing with every step. He listens, nodding along, throwing in a teasing remark every so often that makes her giggle.
I should leave. I should be walking in the opposite direction, shaking off whatever this is before it settles.
But I don’t.
I watch.
The way he slows his steps to match hers, the way he adjusts her ponytail absentmindedly when it starts slipping loose, the way he makes her feel like the most important person in the world without even trying.
It’s effortless for him. Not forced or performed, just… who he is.
And I feel something shift, something I don’t like.
I knew Ethan was a father. I knew he loved his daughter. But seeing it is different. Feeling it is different. Watching him hold her hand like it’s the most unshakable thing in his life, like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be, like he’d rearrange the entire universe to make sure she felt safe—
It’s disarming.
Because it tells me everything about the kind of person he is.
And I like him.
Not just in the abstract, not just in the physical way I spent an entire night trying to forget. I like him in a way I wasn’t expecting, in a way I didn’t see coming, in a way I don’t know how to stop.
And that should be my cue to walk away.
To bury it. To shut it down before it turns into something I can’t control.
But I don’t.
And maybe that’s the real problem.