8. Chapter Eight
I arrive at the rink, coffee in hand. Today was supposed to be my day off.
Joanne called me in because Harry is down with a cold and they needed someone to cover. I don’t mind. It’s not like I haven’t done this a hundred times before, but I won’t have to do it much longer.
The garage is picking up. Drew needs another person managing, and he’s given me that position. It’s good money. Stable. Something I can build on. I won’t need the rink job to make ends meet anymore.
Still, this place has been good to me. It gave me work when I needed it, made sure my family was taken care of, helped Nina when we couldn’t. Leaving is not as simple as just handing in my notice.
But it is time.
I push open the office door, stepping inside to find Joanne at her desk.
"Hey. Do you have a minute?"
She looks up, warm as ever. "Of course, honey. Have a seat. What’s going on?"
I shift the coffee cup between my hands. "Joanne, I wanted to tell you myself. I got a promotion at the garage, which means I’ll have to leave the rink. It wasn’t an easy decision, but with everything changing, it’s the right move for me.
She nods slowly, but I see the tension settle into her shoulders before she speaks. "I knew this was going to happen. When’s your last day?"
She’s nervous. They need someone to do my job. But, I’m not just going to abandon them. Not after everything they’ve done for my family.
My parents couldn’t afford the extra training Nina needed to get to the level she’s at now. She started late, almost fourteen when she laced up for the first time. Compared to the other skaters who’ve been on the ice since they were two, she’s only been skating for nine years. That is a disadvantage in this sport.
But the rink sponsors Nina. That has been a huge help to my parents. They still scrape together what they can for Nikolai’s coaching, but at least the rink covers the ice time, travel, and gear. It’s a weight lifted. They don’t talk about it, but I know they feel it.
"I don’t need to leave any time soon," I tell her. "Find someone to replace me first."
The relief on Joanne’s face is immediate. They don’t need to struggle.
My parents should be able to relax, but I know they won’t. Nationals is fast approaching and all three trainees are going. That means even more pressure, more sacrifices, more late nights spent figuring out how to make it all work.
I exhale a sigh of relief and head to the workshop, ready to set everything up before I cut the ice.
The sharp scrape of blades cuts through the quiet. The sound is off. Too much force, too deep an edge.
It makes me glance up.
That is when I see Valeria.
She looks different. Like there’s something wrong.
There’s something about the way she moves, the way she carries herself. She looks like she is barely holding it together. She looks too tight, too wound up.
She takes off into a jump, pulling in fast, her rotation sharp. For a second, I think she has it.
Then she lands. Wobbles. Puts her foot down.
My brow furrows, that’s not like her. I haven’t really taken the time to watch her skate before, we haven’t even crossed paths before the party, though I’m not sure how. But from everything I’ve heard, and even witnessed, she’s not the type to make that sort of mistake.
I see the flash of frustration, the sharp inhale, the clench of her jaw. She’s pissed.
She circles back, resets, attacks the jump harder. Too hard. Her blade catches. She crashes.
The sound of her body hitting the ice makes my stomach tighten. That one had to hurt.
She gets up slowly, rolling her shoulders, pressing her lips together like she is willing herself not to react.
"Valeria," Nikolai’s voice cracks through the air. Sharp. Unforgiving. "What the hell was that?"
She exhales hard, still shaking out her wrist. "I—"
"You can land a triple flip in your sleep," he snaps. "Why are you skating like an amateur?"
"I don’t know," she fires back, her voice clipped, angry. "I have no idea what is wrong with me."
Nikolai steps closer to the boards, his eyes drilling into her. His tone is not just frustrated now. It is razor sharp.
"Then figure it out. Fast. Nationals are not months away anymore. They are weeks. You do not have time for this."
She doesn’t respond. Just stands there, breathing hard, fists clenched.
"You’re weak right now," he says, softer but somehow worse. "You are better than this."
I watch as her jaw tightens, her entire body locking up.
She storms off the ice without another word, shoving her guards on, shoulders rigid, spine straight.
Like if she keeps herself together physically, the rest won’t crack.
I follow her to the locker room, grabbing her arm before she can disappear inside. "Hey, Valeria. Are you okay?"
She exhales sharply, ripping her arm free. "I’m fine."
She’s not.
"Val—"
"Ethan, what do you want?" she snaps, turning on me, eyes flashing. Sharp. Defensive. Ready for a fight.
"I want to make sure you’re okay after that fall."
She laughs, but it is bitter, cutting. "I said I’m fine."
"You’re not."
She steps closer, shoulders squared, jaw tight, like she’s daring me to challenge her. "I don’t need you hovering. I don’t need you checking on me. I don’t need you acting like you give a damn about how I feel."
That pisses me off.
"You think I don’t?" I fire back.
"I think it doesn’t matter," she snaps. "I think I have more important things to focus on than whatever the hell this is."
Her breathing is sharp, fast, like she’s holding back something bigger than this fight. I should walk away. I should let it go.
But I don’t.
"You’re running yourself into the ground."
"And?" She tilts her head, daring me to say it out loud.
"And it’s going to destroy you."
Her jaw tightens. Her fists clench at her sides. For a second, I think she’s going to shove me away again.
Then, her hands are on me.
She grabs my wrist. Hard. Her fingers wrap tight, her body tense, her breathing unsteady.
"Come with me," she says.
I hesitate. "Where are we going?"
She grabs my shirt. Her eyes flick to my mouth.
She leans in—just enough to let the tension sink into my skin, to let the heat between us stretch unbearably thin.
"You know what would make me feel better?" she murmurs.
A breath. A pause.
I swallow. "What?"
A smirk tugs at her lips, dark and reckless, but her eyes say something else. "Let’s fuck."
And then she yanks me inside.
The argument still lingers in the air. Sharp. Heated. Unresolved.
She doesn’t want to talk. She wants to forget.
And she wants to do it with me.
She yanks me forward, mouth crashing into mine. Hard. Desperate. Teeth, tongue, breath—nothing soft, nothing hesitant.
I growl against her lips, grabbing her hips, spinning her, pressing her against the locker before she can second-guess this. Her breath stutters at the impact.
She likes it.
Her hands move fast, tugging at my shirt, nails dragging over my abs, scraping along my obliques as she pulls me in. My hands are already at her leggings, shoving them down just enough, just so I can touch her.
Fuck. She’s drenched.
Her fingers tighten in my hair, her body jerking when I slide my fingers through her slick folds. She’s not waiting. She’s not teasing.
She’s rolling her hips, grinding down, chasing the friction, pushing harder, faster, until her breath is nothing but a sharp, uneven gasp.
I bite down on her jaw, dragging my lips to her ear. "This what you need?" My voice is rough, guttural.
She barely nods, one hand braced against the locker, the other fisting my shirt.
I don’t wait.
I unfasten my jeans, free my cock, and lift her. Her thighs wrap around me, her core hot and wet against me, making my jaw clench.
I pause, grip tightening on her waist. "Val—"
She knows what I am asking.
"Pill," she gasps out, nails biting into my shoulders. "I’m on it."
That’s all I need.
I thrust into her in one smooth stroke, her tight heat stretching around me, pulling me in, stealing my fucking breath.
She gasps, her back arching, legs locking tighter around my waist.
I freeze for half a second.
Then she moves.
Her hips roll, her body tight, desperate, clenching around my cock like she can’t get close enough.
I slam into her, hard, fast, unrelenting. The metal lockers rattle with every thrust, her breath stutters, her nails drag down my back.
She holds on like she needs something to anchor her.
Or maybe she is the one drowning.
Her core squeezes around me, thighs trembling, muscles flexing, moans swallowed against my skin.
Fuck.
She’s already close.
I feel it in the way her entire body locks, the way she shudders, the way she completely fucking falls apart around me.
That’s all it takes.
I bury my face in her neck, teeth biting down, cock throbbing as I follow her over the edge.
I hold her there, panting, shaking, both of us wrecked.
She’s still clinging to me, her fingers tangled in my hair.
Then she exhales and pushes lightly against my chest.
I already know what is coming.
She straightens her clothes, avoids my eyes. And then she walks away without a word.
Like this wasn’t everything.
But it was.
And I can’t fucking pretend otherwise.
I brace my hands against the locker, exhaling hard, trying to push past the way my body still feels her, the way my head is still spinning, the way none of this, none of her, is something I can shake off. My pulse is still hammering, my skin burning where she touched me, where she pulled me in, and yet, there’s something heavier settling in my chest, something I can’t ignore.
Because this wasn’t just sex.
It wasn’t just frustration or release or something we can both walk away from and pretend never happened.
It was her.
And if she thinks she can leave like nothing happened, like she isn’t unraveling right in front of me, like I didn’t just feel how much she needed that, needed me, then she doesn’t know me at all. Which, to be fair, she doesn’t, but I’m going to change that.
I drag a hand down my face, inhale deep, try to steady myself before I find her.
But I already know it won’t help.
Because the second I step into the rink again, I see her.
She is sitting near the benches, tying her skates. Too fast. Too tight. Like she is trying to outrun something.
I sit beside her, still feeling the weight of what just happened, still hearing the sound of her breathing unevenly against my skin, still tasting her on my lips. But my voice is steady. "I know you’re not eating, Val."
She freezes, just for a second. A split-second hesitation before she keeps tying, before she acts like she didn’t hear me.
Then—"I am."
"Not enough."
She exhales sharply, shoulders tensing, already bracing for a fight. "I’m fine, Ethan."
I shake my head. "No, you’re not."
She lets out a frustrated laugh, quick, sharp, humorless, like this conversation is just another thing she doesn’t have time for. "Jesus. I don’t need this from you."
"You don’t need it from me," I say, watching as she pulls the laces so tight I know it has to hurt, "but you’re going to hear it, anyway."
She scoffs, looking away. "I’m not at my optimal level."
My chest tightens. "What does that even mean?"
She looks at me then, and for a second, I swear I see something break in her expression. But she blinks, and it’s gone. "I need to be lighter to jump better."
The words land like a gut punch. I shake my head. "No, you don’t. You were stronger before."
She exhales, frustrated, like I don’t get it. Like I never will.
"Why do you care?" she asks, voice quieter now, like she’s not sure she even wants the answer.
I don’t answer right away, because there are a hundred things I could say, and none of them feel big enough.
Because it’s not just about skating. It’s not just about the way she pushes herself to the edge of breaking every time she steps on the ice. It’s about how I see her. How I’ve been seeing her. And how, no matter how much she keeps trying to push me out, I’m still here.
I exhale, rubbing a hand over my jaw. "Because it’s you, Val. And I can’t stand watching you do this to yourself."
She stills.
Her fingers tighten in the laces, knuckles going white, and for a second, she looks like she wants to run, like she wants to pretend she didn’t hear me, like she’s already thinking of the fastest way to shut this down.
"You don’t mean that," she whispers, but it doesn’t sound like a challenge. It sounds like a defense. Like she’s daring me to prove her wrong.
I lean forward, forearms resting on my knees, my voice low, even. "Yeah, I do."
She looks at me, and this time, she doesn’t blink it away. She just stares, like she doesn’t know what to do with this. With me.
And for the first time, I think she’s scared.
Her fingers curl in her lap, pressing into the fabric of her leggings, like she needs something to hold onto.
I exhale, lowering my voice. "Why did you pull me into that locker room, Val?"
She tenses. "I don’t know."
I shake my head. "Bullshit. You know."
She clenches her jaw but doesn’t say anything.
So, I keep going. "You were angry. You were frustrated. And you needed to forget. Why?"
Her eyes flicker, something flashing through them so fast I almost miss it. But I don’t. She inhales sharply, looking away. "Because if I stop, I have to feel everything."
The silence is deafening.
The words hang there, heavy, real, like she wishes she could take them back.
But she can’t.
And I won’t let her.
I nod slowly, because I get it. She has spent her whole life focused, controlled, pushing everything else aside. Letting someone in? That’s new.
"Then let’s figure it out," I say.
She hesitates. One second. Two. Then, she exhales, and it’s like something in her gives. "Okay," she says softly.
Not defiant. Not fighting.
Just a choice.
A choice to try.
A choice to let me in.