4. Delaney
4
Delaney
They're back. And early. My stomach drops as I spot a group of familiar faces filing in—the Hawthorne Hunters hockey team. Well, some of them anyway. Thankfully there's only a small handful of them this time, but they seem intent on watching mine and Lachlan’s practice.
"Looks like we've got an audience," Lachlan murmurs, following my gaze.
I swallow hard, trying to ignore them. "Great," I mutter. "Just what we need—a bunch of rowdy hockey players disrupting our practice."
I'm tempted to tell Natalie that they're banned and I need her to lay down the law. But as we continue our routine, the players remain surprisingly quiet, their eyes fixed on us with what looks like genuine interest. No lewd comments, no disruptive conversation—just eyes on us, watching.
In fact, they look almost... interested. I even catch them leaning forward in their seats, brows furrowed in concentration as we move through a complicated step sequence. Maybe they’re actually here for the skating, not to mess with us. I relax a fraction.
Still, the weight of their gazes is impossible to ignore.
"Ready to nail this, Del?" Lachlan's voice breaks through my thoughts, a hint of excitement in it.
I nod, my heart rate picking up as we gain speed. "Let's show them what we've got."
As Lachlan hoists me into the air, I extend my leg, pointing my toe and arching my back. For a moment, I'm weightless, suspended above the ice like a bird in flight. Then gravity takes hold, and I'm descending, Lachlan's strong arms guiding me back to solid ground.
"Nice height," our coach calls from the sidelines. "But we need to work on the landing. Del, try to soften your knee more on the impact."
Frustration bubbles up inside me. We’ve been drilling this move for weeks, and I’m still not nailing it. It’s not even a complicated lift, which makes it doubly frustrating. "Got it," I say through clenched teeth, trying to force a smile. "Let’s go again."
Lachlan and I dive into another set, spinning through our side-by-side triple toe loops. Mid-spin, I hear a muffled "Fuck," followed by an awestruck “Holy shit”. Then, when we move into our next lift, a “How the hell do you do that?”
I nearly trip over my landing, caught off guard by the sudden outburst. Natalie spins around to face the group of hockey players, her expression all business.
"Gentlemen," she calls out, "if you can't keep your commentary to yourselves, you'll have to leave."
The players exchange sheepish looks, one of them dramatically miming zipping his lips while another player—Axel, I think—gives an exaggerated salute.
"Nope. You got it," Axel says, grinning. "We can keep our traps shut."
I want to be annoyed at their interruption, but there's something endearing about their wide-eyed enthusiasm. Before I can stop myself, a snort of laughter escapes me.
One of them catches my eye. He's tall, easily over six feet, with an athletic build that suggests a lot of time spent lifting and training. His hair’s styled in a fade with a bit of length in the back—kind of like a modern mullet. There’s stubble along his jaw, and his brown eyes are warm, crinkling at the corners when he smiles. It’s not a forced smile either; it feels real, like he’s genuinely happy to be here. It almost hides the mix of nervousness and eagerness written all over his face.
Lachlan raises an eyebrow, a teasing glint in his eye. "Looks like our fan club is becoming more permanent," he says, loud enough for the players to hear. "Should I be jealous?"
I roll my eyes, feeling heat creep into my cheeks. "Please. As if I'd trade you for a bunch of hockey bros."
But even as I say it, I can't help sneaking another glance. He catches my eye and flashes this heart-stopping smile. I quickly look away, my pulse racing.
Get it together, Del, I scold myself. You're here to skate, not ogle cute boys. Even if said cute boy has biceps that could probably bench press you with ease...
"Earth to Del," Lachlan's voice breaks through my thoughts.
I do my best to focus on the task at hand, but it’s… harder than it should be. Jocks aren’t really my type. They’re arrogant and self-centered, with egos as inflated as their muscles. But at the same time, they’re the only ones who really understand the time commitment my training requires. The endless hours, the sacrifices, the dedication—it’s a language they speak fluently.
Still, hockey players were the worst of them. Cocky bullshit alongside a perceived rivalry with figure skaters. As if their ability to smash into each other while chasing a puck somehow made them superior to the artistry and precision of what we do.
"You're thinking too hard again," Lachlan murmurs as we set up for our next element. "I can practically hear the gears turning in that pretty head of yours."
I force a smile. "Just focusing on the routine."
We push through a few more sequences, my muscles burning with the exertion. After nailing a particularly tricky lift, Lachlan nods towards the boards. "Water break?"
"God, yes," I pant, grateful for the reprieve.
As we skate towards the edge of the rink, I notice one of the hockey players scrambling to his feet. It's him —and he's holding my water bottle. My stride falters for a moment as I really see him for the first time.
I can't help but fixate on his hair. It should look ridiculous—I mean, a mullet past the eighties? But somehow, infuriatingly, it suits him perfectly. The fade accentuates his strong jawline, and the longer strands at the back give him a carefree, boyish charm that's oddly appealing.
He’s got a few piercings—one in his nose and a couple in his ears—and there’s a small scar in his left brow that gives him an edge. He’s not trying to be handsome, but damn it, he’s got that effortlessly rugged look that draws you in.
My heart speeds up, and I silently curse my body's betrayal. This is ridiculous. I don't have time for distractions, especially not in the form of a hockey player. Men have only ever led to trouble for me, and I’m not about to let myself get sucked into that again. Sure, it’s been a while, and sure, he looks like he could scratch that itch and then some. But that's all it would be. A hookup. Nothing more. I’m not fool enough to want anything beyond that—especially not now.
But, this is too close to home to consider even that. I’ve learned the hard way how much damage things like this can cause if you're not careful. Rafe showed me that. He didn’t just break my heart; he sabotaged my career. In the middle of an Olympic year.
No, I’m not doing this again.
As I reach the edge of the ice, he holds out my water bottle, a dopey smile plastered across his face. I give him a wary look, my hand hovering uncertainly. Is this some kind of prank?
“Can I have my water bottle?” I snap.
"I didn't drug it, promise," he blurts out, his eyes widening as soon as the words leave his mouth.
I recoil, startled by his bizarre statement. My mind races. Is this his idea of a joke? Or is he actually trying to reassure me? Either way, it's a spectacularly poor choice of words. I'm torn between laughing at the sheer absurdity and being genuinely concerned about accepting anything from him now.
Before I can decide how to respond, one of his teammates jumps in, his voice a mix of exasperation and amusement.
"Dude! What the actual fuck?" he exclaims, slapping his friend on the back of the head. "He really didn't touch your drink. And he's really sorry for being an idiot. If he keeps soft-stalking you, you'll find he puts his foot in his mouth quite often."
His face flushes a deep red. "I'm not stalk—I'm not stalking you," he stammers, looking at me with panicked eyes.
His friend snorts. "So we're gonna pretend we didn't spend hours yesterday stalking her Instapix and watching her old routines online?"
I try to hide my laugh with my hand, but a snort escapes me. These guys are... something else. His head snaps back to me, our eyes meeting. His embarrassment seems to melt away, replaced by this lovestruck smile that takes over his entire face. It's so genuine, so unguarded, that I feel a warmth spread through my chest.
His friends start nudging him, making exaggerated "go ahead" motions. I watch as he takes a deep breath, squaring his shoulders like he's preparing for the biggest game of his life. Then, without warning, he practically screams his name at me.
"brECK!"
I wince at the volume but can't help the smile that tugs at my lips. There's something endearing about his awkwardness, a stark contrast to the cocky hockey player stereotype I've come to expect. Maybe I've been too quick to judge. Maybe not all hockey players are arrogant jerks.
Or maybe I'm just letting myself get distracted by a pretty face and a ridiculous haircut. Either way, I know I'm in trouble.
A faint pink creeps up the back of his neck, and he clears his throat, trying to cover the obvious discomfort. After a beat of silence, he finally manages to introduce himself, his voice a little more strained. “I’m, um, Breck Monroe.”
“Del Quinn.” I try to keep my expression neutral, but my heart is beating faster than it should. When I extend my hand, my skin brushes against his, and a zap of electricity shoots up my arm.
What the hell?
I freeze, feeling like someone just short-circuited my brain. I’m pissed for a second, thinking maybe they’re messing with me. But then I look up into his face and catch the bewildered awe in his eyes. He’s not joking. He’s not trying to play some weird game with me. He’s just caught off guard as I am.
For a moment, I’m too stunned to move, but when I finally gather myself, I shake his hand, trying to act normal. The shock still lingers in my fingertips.
Natalie's voice cuts through my thoughts. "Social hour is over. Let's get back to work."
I nod, grateful for the distraction. As I glide back onto the ice, Lachlan leans in close, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
"He looks like a real-life emoji," he whispers, jerking his head towards Breck. "That boy is looking at you with literal heart eyes."
I can't help but laugh, giving Lachlan a playful slap on the chest. "Shut up," I mutter, feeling a blush creep up my neck.
We settle into our starting positions for our short program. As the music begins, I try to focus solely on Lachlan and our routine. But I can feel Breck's eyes on me, his gaze like a physical touch.
"Stop thinking about Lover Boy and concentrate," Lachlan hisses as we move into our first lift.
I roll my eyes. "I'm not thinking about him," I lie, tightening my core as Lachlan hoists me above his head.
But even as we run through our elements—the twizzles, the death spiral, the throw jump—I'm hyper-aware of Breck's presence. It's infuriating. I've spent years honing my focus, and now this boy with ridiculous hair and soulful brown eyes is throwing me off my game.
As we finish our run-through, I chance a glance towards the viewing area. Breck and his teammates are still there, watching intently. When he catches my eye, that dopey smile spreads across his face again, and I feel my heart skip a beat.
"Earth to Delaney," Lachlan says, snapping his fingers in front of my face. "You with me?"
I shake my head, trying to clear it. "Yeah, sorry. Just..."
Lachlan smirks. "I can see that. Try not to fall head over heels for him. At least not on the ice—I can't catch you if you're swooning."
"You're hilarious," I deadpan, but I can't quite hide my smile.