Puck Me, I’m Yours (Hawthorne University Hockey #1)

2. Delaney

2

Delaney

The world blurs into a dizzying whirl of white as Lachlan lifts me into our final spin. My body moves on autopilot, muscles instinctively locking into position after countless repetitions. But no matter how hard I focus, I can’t shake the feeling of eyes on me.

As a competitive figure skater, you’d think I’d be used to that. And, I am. But these feel…different somehow.

Maybe it’s because they’re a bunch of Neanderthals masquerading as athletes. Hockey players to be more specific, gathered at the edge of the rink, whispering—no, grumbling—like they think I can’t hear them.

I don’t give a fuck if they have the ice after us. They shouldn’t have been allowed out here while it’s my time. Their eyes follow every move I make, their comments not nearly as quiet as they think. Fucking hockey boys. Distractions I don’t need right now.

I won't let them throw me off. I close my eyes for a second, pushing their bullshit to the back of my mind. I need to center myself.

Deep breaths. Focus. Don't strangle the Neanderthals.

Five things I can see... the cold, sharp lines of the rink, the bright glare of the overhead lights, the sweat on Lachlan’s brow, the steady rhythm of my own breath, and the distorted shapes of the hockey boys in the corner of my vision.

Four things I can feel... the tight grip of Lachlan’s hands on my waist, the gliding motion of my skates carving into the ice, the weight of my body shifting with the spin, the coolness of the air rushing past my face.

Three things I can hear... the scrape of skates on ice, the song playing on the soundsystem, and the low murmur of those damn hockey players.

Two things I can smell... the sharp sting of cold air, and... them.

No. Fuck. I can’t think about them. They’re nothing. I block them out and focus on the here, the now. This is my ice.

One thing I can taste... the lingering sweetness of the coffee I had earlier, now mixed with the bite of winter in the air.

We transition seamlessly into our ending pose, my leg extended in a graceful arc as Lachlan supports me. Perfect synchronization, just like we've practiced a thousand times. The ice beneath my skates feels like home, familiar and comforting.

As we hold the pose, I catch sight of the hockey team's impressed faces. Their eyes are wide, jaws slightly slack. Good. Let them see what real athleticism looks like.

Lachlan breaks character first, a grin spreading across his freckled face. "Looks like we've got quite the fan club, eh?"

I roll my eyes, but can't help the small smile tugging at my lips. "More like a peanut gallery," I retort, my voice low enough that only he can hear. "Come on, we've got that new lift to work on."

"Always the taskmaster," he teases, but follows my lead as we skate to center ice. “You sure you don’t want to end early, just let them have the ice?”

“Fuck no. This is my ice time. If they want to be rude as fuck, that’s on them.” I raise my voice enough that I know they can hear me.

My mind is already racing ahead to our next sequence. The gathered hockey players fade into background noise, just another obstacle to overcome on my path to greatness. I won't let their presence rush me or throw me off my game. This ice is my domain, and I intend to make the most of every second I have on it.

No distractions.

As I glide across the ice, my mind wanders to the never-ending checklist that is my life. The grueling six-hour training sessions, the part-time classes at Hawthorne, the physical therapy appointments—it's all a delicate balancing act, and I'm the tightrope walker.

"Del, you're drifting," Lachlan calls out, snapping me back to the present.

I correct my stance, offering a quick nod. "Sorry."

He skates closer, concern etched on his face. "You okay? You've been pretty intense lately. Well, more intense than usual."

I let out a dry chuckle. "When am I not intense?"

"Fair point. But seriously, what's going on in that head of yours?"

I sigh, pushing the flyaways back off my forehead and tightening my ponytail. "It's just…” everything . Sometimes I feel like I'm barely keeping my head above water. But, I don’t need him to know that. This partnership is still new and after what happened the last time… no. “I’m fine, really.”

Lachlan's eyes soften. "You know, it's okay to take a breath once in a while. The ice isn't going anywhere."

"Neither are my dreams," I counter, my voice firm. "And I've had enough setbacks. I can't afford any more distractions."

As soon as the words leave my mouth, my thoughts traitorously drift to Rafe. The drama, the betrayal, the heartache—it all comes flooding back. I clench my jaw, pushing the memories away.

"Hey," Lachlan's voice is gentle. "You're not alone in this, you know. We're a team."

I meet his gaze, allowing myself a moment of vulnerability. "I know. It's just... skating's the one thing that's always been there for me. Through everything. I can't let anything jeopardize that again."

He nods, understanding in his eyes. "Then let's make sure nothing does. Back to that lift?"

I smile, genuinely this time. "You read my mind."

As we resume our practice, I feel a renewed sense of purpose. The ice beneath my blades, the crisp air on my skin—this is where I belong. No matter what life throws at me, I'll always have this.

Not even stupid fucking hockey players can ruin it for me.

??????

As I'm gathering my gear, a familiar figure glides towards us. Greer Collins, in all her prickly glory, comes to a stop at the edge of the rink.

"Hey, Del. Lachlan," she nods, her chin-length blonde hair swaying with the motion.

"Greer," I respond, my tone neutral. "How's it going?"

She shrugs, her perpetual resting bitch face firmly in place. "Same old. Saw your routine. Not bad."

I resist the urge to roll my eyes and smile. Classic Greer, doling out compliments like they physically pain her. Greer is... an acquired taste. Gruff, prickly—honestly, if a cactus were to take human form, it would be Greer Collins. I mean, I know I'm not all sunshine and rainbows, but Greer makes me look like I go around carrying a ‘free hugs’ sign in comparison.

I’ve never really understood why she chose figure skating; it seemed at odds with her personality. But despite the mismatch, she’s fucking spectacular at it. She’s the only other ranked skater on the university team.

"Thanks," Lachlan chimes in, his easy-going nature a stark contrast to Greer's prickliness. "You sticking around for a bit?"

"I am. Helping run this shitshow with Arabella," she replies, already turning to leave. "Later."

As she skates away, I catch Lachlan's amused expression. "What?" I ask.

He shakes his head, grinning. "Nothing. Just thinking Greer could give lessons on how to exit a conversation quickly."

I snort, surprised by the burst of laughter. "Yeah, well, at least she's consistent."

We finish packing up and head towards the exit with our coach. That's when I remember the group of hockey players loitering near the exit. Great. Just what I need to cap off this exhausting practice session.

As we approach, I can feel their eyes on us. The comments start flying almost immediately.

"Hey, twinkle toes!" one of them calls out. "Nice spins out there!"

Another chimes in, "Yeah, you guys should teach us how to pirouette. Might come in handy during face-offs!"

“I’d love to learn how you bend that way—might come in handy when we’re down on the ice, pinned against the boards.”

I grit my teeth, keeping my eyes forward. It's harmless teasing, I tell myself. But as we get closer, the comments start to edge towards obnoxious.

“Careful, sweetheart, those leggings are pretty damn tight. They leave absolutely nothing to the imagination.”

“I wonder what those powerful legs would feel like wrapped around my shoulders.”

I feel Lachlan tense beside me, and I know he's about to say something. But before he can, I catch his eye and shake my head slightly. We're almost past them. No need to engage.

"Hey, knock it off, assholes. Show some respect."

I freeze, caught off guard by the unexpected defense. Curiosity tugs at me, urging me to turn around and see who spoke up, but I resist. Instead, I file the moment away, a small spark of warmth blooming in my chest.

But as we enter the changing room, I can't help but feel a twinge of frustration. I push the thought aside. I've got bigger things to focus on.

"You okay?" Lachlan asks quietly.

I nod, mustering a small smile. "Yeah. Nothing I haven't heard before."

Coach Natalie is already there, her clipboard in hand and a gleam in her eye that I've come to recognize as her 'game face.' She glances at Lachlan, but doesn’t break coach-mode yet. I had been worried about working with a couple when Lachlan and I first started skating together last year. You never know if there’ll be too much distraction or drama. But these two are incredibly professional. When it's time for practice, they’re all business. And once it’s over, they slip back into being that sweet, loving couple again. It’s honestly kind of admirable.

If I still believed in happily ever afters, I’d want one like theirs.

"Alright, lady and gent," she says, clapping her hands together. "Let's talk New York."

I start unlacing my skates, my fingers moving automatically while my mind races. "We nailed the triple," I offer, unable to keep the pride from my voice.

Lachlan grins. "Yeah, but that side-by-side combination still needs work."

I wince, remembering the slight wobble on my landing. "True. I'll drill that one until it's perfect."

Coach Natalie nods, scribbling notes. "Good awareness, both of you. Now, let's talk about Skate America."

My heart rate picks up at the mention of the competition. It's not our first major event of the season, but it is a crucial stepping stone towards our Olympic dreams. Well, it would be if it were an Olympic year. But it’s another opportunity to prove that I still belong here, that Rafe didn’t steal anything from me.

"October's coming fast," Coach continues, her tone serious. "These next few weeks are make or break. We need to refine every element, polish every transition."

I nod, determination coursing through me. "We're ready, Coach. Whatever it takes."

As Coach outlines our intensified training schedule, I can almost feel the weight of our goals settling on my shoulders. But it's a weight I've chosen, one I've trained for. And as I breathe in the crisp air of the rink, I know there's nowhere else I'd rather be.

Lachlan's eyes twinkle with mischief as he zips up his jacket. "You know, Del, I wouldn't put it past you to drag me out of bed at 3 AM for 'just one more run-through.'"

I roll my eyes, but can't fight the grin tugging at my lips. "Please, I'm not that cruel. 4 AM, minimum."

He laughs, the sound echoing off the locker room walls. "I knew it! My fiancée's going to think I'm having an affair with the ice."

"Hey, if it means nailing that throw, I'll risk the scandal," I quip back, shouldering my bag.

As we walk out, the camaraderie between us is palpable. It's a delicate balance—the drive to push each other mixed with the genuine friendship we've built. I'm grateful for it, especially after everything that happened with my last partner.

"Seriously though," Lachlan says, his tone softening. "We've got this, Del. Your determination is going to take us all the way to gold."

I swallow hard, touched by his faith in me. "Thanks, Lach. Just... don't hate me when I text you about footwork at midnight."

"Wouldn't dream of it, partner."

The drive home is a blur of mental checklists and replayed routines. I barely notice the familiar sight of the house I share with Greer and some of the other university skaters until I'm fumbling with my keys.

Inside, the scent of microwaved pasta hits me, and my stomach growls in response. One of my roommates is sprawled on the couch, textbook propped on her knees.

"There's leftovers in the fridge," she calls out, not looking up. "You look like you need carbs."

I snort. "Thanks."

I step into the small kitchen, quickly scanning the fridge. The remnants of last night's chicken and quinoa stare back at me, a simple meal that fits within the rigid confines of my diet.

I toss the meal in the microwave, absentmindedly checking the clock. Only a couple of hours before my evening class starts—just enough time to inhale some carbs, run through my to-do list, and try to calm the storm of thoughts in my head.

As the microwave hums, I mentally list out the tasks ahead: coursework, physical therapy, program adjustments for the competition, and, of course, making sure every last detail of my training schedule stays on track. It’s a never-ending loop of work, and I can already feel the weight of it pressing down. My body’s tired, my mind is racing, but I won’t let it crush me. I remind myself that every sacrifice is worth it—that every hour spent in the rink, every ounce of energy poured into this sport, will be a step closer to the Olympics. My dream. The only thing that matters.

The microwave beeps, dragging me back to the present. I pull the container out, trying not to burn my fingers on the sides, and sit down at the small kitchen table. The leftovers taste like exactly what they are: fuel. Nothing more, nothing less. It’s all part of the plan.

I’d say I miss fast food and dessert, but I’ve never really had it. I’ve been reaching for Olympic dreams since I was nine years old and it was clear my talent matched my ambition.

I take a bite and glance over at the stack of textbooks and notes piled in the corner of the kitchen. The university deal has been a godsend—part-time student status with an agreement to stay competitive on their skating team. In exchange, I get discounted ice time at the practice facility for Lachlan and I. It’s not a perfect system, but it’s the only way I can afford to train full-time now. I wouldn’t be where I am without that agreement, and it’s one of the few things that makes this overwhelming schedule somewhat bearable.

When the food is gone, I clean up quickly, fighting off the mental exhaustion. There’s no room for weakness, no time for self-doubt. The Olympics are closer than they’ve ever been, and I’m not going to let anything stand in my way.

My mind drifts to the feeling of gliding across the ice, the exhilaration of a perfect jump, the synchronicity with Lachlan during a flawless lift. It's addictive, that rush of adrenaline and accomplishment.

But reality creeps back in as I glance at the clock. "Crap, I need to get ready for class."

As I rush to gather my things, I catch a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror. My eyes, those intense green orbs that have been described as 'determined' more times than I can count, stare back at me. I take a deep breath.

"Every sacrifice is worth it," I whisper to my reflection. "Eyes on the prize, Quinn."

With one last look, I head out the door, my steps light despite the weight of my aspirations. The path to Olympic glory isn't easy, but then again, nothing worth having ever is.