10. Delaney
10
Delaney
The muted chatter of True Brew fades into white noise as I lean closer to my laptop screen, my eyes fixed on the graceful figures twirling across the ice. I hit pause, rewind, play again. Rafe's hand slides down Dakota's back as they transition into a lift, her legs wrapping around his waist with practiced ease.
"Traitors," I mutter under my breath, taking a sip of my Arrow Shot. The espresso's bitterness matches the taste in my mouth as I watch them nail the dismount, all smiles and perfect synchronization.
I can’t help but feel a pang of anger every time I see them. I clench my jaw, forcing my focus back on the technical aspects of their routine. But it’s hard to separate the skaters from the betrayal. They’re not just competitors to me—they’re the ones who ruined everything.
“Nothing’s happening, baby,” Rafe’s voice echoes in my mind, smug and infuriating. "Just trust me and let go."
Trust. What a joke. I trusted him, alright. Trusted him right up until the moment I walked in on him and Dakota in our hotel room, limbs tangled and excuses ready. "It just happened," he'd said, as if that made it better. As if that erased the betrayal, as if it repaired what he shattered. How long had they been fucking behind my back? I’d never know because I refused to ask.
I trusted him, trusted Ethan, trusted Dakota—and where did it get me? Alone on the sidelines, fighting to piece my career back together while they thrived off my ruin.
Rafe should never be trusted. He’s the one who manipulated everything, whispering in Ethan’s ear about how I was “distracted” or “not in it anymore,” all while sneaking around with Dakota. By the time Ethan confronted me, it was clear Rafe had already poisoned the well. Our partnership dissolved within weeks, leaving me without a partner and out of contention during an Olympic year.
I press pause again, the image of Rafe’s hands on Dakota’s waist frozen on the screen. My stomach twists, and I switch back to my own video. No amount of analysis will change what I already know. They might have taken everything from me, but I’ll find my way back. And, I’ll fucking crush them.
"You okay there, hon?" The barista's voice breaks through my reverie. "You're gripping that mug like it owes you money."
I force a smile, loosening my death grip on the ceramic. "Just analyzing some tough competition," I say, gesturing to my screen.
She leans in, squinting at the footage. "Ooh, figure skating! That's you, right? You're so graceful out there."
"Thanks," I reply, warmth creeping into my cheeks. It's nice to be recognized, even if it's just by the campus barista. "I'm working on qualifying for the Olympics."
"Well, you've got my vote," she says with a wink, refilling my mug. "This one's on the house. Consider it fuel for your gold medal."
As she walks away, I turn back to my laptop, determination settling in my bones. Rafe and Dakota may have betrayed me, may have left me partnerless at the worst possible moment, but I'm still here. Still fighting. Still aiming for that podium.
I’m not going to let what they did to me derail me again. I switch back to their video again, watching their routine with renewed focus. Every move, every transition, every expression - I catalog it all, searching for weaknesses, for opportunities. Because no matter how much it hurts to see them together, no matter how fresh the wound still feels, I refuse to let their betrayal define me.
I inhale deeply, willing the ache in my chest to subside. My eyes refocus on the screen, determined to push past the lingering hurt. I've got this. I'm stronger now, better off without—
The door of True Brew swings open with a bang, startling me out of my thoughts. A wave of boisterous laughter and the sharp scent of autumn air floods the café. I glance up, my heart rate spiking as I recognize the rowdy group entering.
The Hawthorne Hunters, in all their hockey glory.
My eyes instinctively search for one face in particular, and there he is. Breck Monroe, all six-feet-plus of him, grinning widely as he playfully shoves one of his teammates. His nose ring catches the light, and I'm momentarily mesmerized by the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he laughs.
"Dude, I'm telling you, that save was pure luck!" one of the guys shouts.
Breck's eyes sweep the room, landing on me. His smile softens, and I feel a flutter in my stomach that I desperately try to ignore.
"Luck, my ass," Breck retorts, his gaze still locked on mine. "I'll take skill over luck any day."
I duck my head, pretending to be engrossed in my work. But who am I kidding? My focus is shot. The room suddenly feels ten degrees warmer, and I'm hyper-aware of every move Breck makes.
Why does he affect me like this? We're from completely different worlds. He's all rough edges and spontaneity, while I'm... well, I'm the girl who spends her Friday night analyzing figure skating routines in a coffee shop.
I risk another glance up, and my breath catches. Breck's making his way toward me, his confident stride parting the sea of his rowdy teammates like some hockey-playing Moses. My heart rate picks up, and I silently curse my body's betrayal.
"Get a grip, Del," I mutter to myself, frantically clicking through video footage I'm no longer seeing.
As Breck gets closer, I can smell the faint lemony scent with hints of cedarwood that I’ve come to associate with him. It's oddly comforting, and I hate that I find it so.
"Hey, Delaney," he says, his voice low and warm.
I look up, feigning surprise. "Oh, hi Breck."
He's standing there, all broad shoulders and easy charm, and I'm struck by how natural this feels. Like he belongs here, in my quiet corner of True Brew.
"Burning the midnight oil?" he asks, nodding at my laptop.
I shrug, aiming for nonchalance. "Just some competition prep. Nothing exciting."
"I beg to differ," Breck says, leaning in slightly. "Everything you do is exciting."
I feel my cheeks heat up and silently curse my fair complexion. "Flattery will get you nowhere, Monroe," I quip, but even I can hear the smile in my voice.
Why am I smiling? This isn't part of the plan. The plan is Olympics, gold medal, destroy Rafe and his bullshit ego, coaching career. Not... whatever this is with Breck.
But as he stands there, looking at me like I'm the only person in the room, I can't help but wonder if maybe it's time for a new plan. Or, at least a slightly modified one.
Breck's grin widens as he pulls out the chair across from me. The scrape of wood against tile seems impossibly loud in the cozy atmosphere of True Brew. He looks at me, eyebrows raised in silent question, and I find myself gesturing for him to sit before I can overthink it.
"So," he says, settling in, "what's new in the world of Delaney Quinn?"
I roll my eyes, but there's no real annoyance behind it. "Oh, you know, just living the dream. Early mornings, sore muscles, and enough coffee to fuel a small army."
Breck chuckles, the sound warm and rich. "Sounds familiar. Except replace 'coffee' with 'protein shakes' and you've got my life in a nutshell."
"Gross," I wrinkle my nose. "I'll take my caffeine addiction any day."
"Hey, don't knock it 'til you've tried it," he protests, eyes twinkling. "I make a mean chocolate peanut butter shake."
The mental image of Breck in an apron, whipping up protein shakes in his kitchen, catches me off guard. A laugh bubbles up before I can stop it, and I'm surprised by how genuine it sounds. When was the last time I laughed like that?
"What's so funny?" Breck asks, his smile impossibly wide.
I shake my head, still grinning. "Nothing, just... picturing you as a smoothie chef."
"I'll have you know I'm a culinary genius," he declares, puffing out his chest in mock offense.
"Uh-huh," I drawl, raising an eyebrow. "I'm sure your teammates are lining up for your gourmet protein sludge."
"Maybe I’ll show you how to make a proper protein shake—whenever you finally let me teach you how to bake that banana bread Greer said you were raving about.”
The playful challenge lingers between us, charged and teasing. That flutter in my chest returns, stronger this time. It’s dangerous—the way his words and easy banter make me forget about training schedules and the competition footage paused on my laptop. But as I meet his gaze, his brown eyes warm and filled with mischief, I can’t bring myself to care.
“I wouldn’t call it raving,” I reply, my tone laced with mock indignation.
“Oh, no?”
“No, it was a perfectly respectable appreciation.”
Breck throws his head back, laughing loud and unfiltered, the sound drawing more than a few curious glances from nearby tables. It’s the kind of laugh that makes you want to join in, even if you don’t know what’s funny.
Breck's gaze drifts to my laptop screen, curiosity sparking in his eyes. "So, what's got you so focused? You said competition prep?"
I hesitate for a moment, my fingers hovering over the trackpad. Sharing my work feels... intimate, somehow. But there's something in Breck's expression that makes me want to let him in, just a little.
"Uh, yeah," I say, turning the screen slightly so he can see. "I'm reviewing footage from our last competition in New York."
His eyebrows shoot up, genuine interest lighting his face. "No way, that's so cool. Can I see?"
I nod, pressing play on a clip of my free skate with Lachlan. As we glide across the ice in perfect sync, I feel a familiar mix of pride and frustration. "We did well, but there's always room for improvement."
"Are you kidding?" Breck leans in, eyes glued to the screen. "That looks incredible. How do you even stay on your feet spinning like that?"
A warm glow spreads through my chest at his enthusiasm. "Years of practice and a lot of bruises," I admit with a small smile. "But it's worth it when everything comes together."
As I explain the intricacies of our routine, pointing out the technical elements and areas we're working to refine, I'm struck by how attentively Breck listens. He asks thoughtful questions, genuinely trying to understand the nuances of my sport.
"It's kind of like hockey, in a way," he muses. "The precision, the teamwork. Except you make it look effortless and beautiful while we look like brutes."
I feel heat rise to my cheeks at the compliment. "Thanks. It's not always as graceful as it looks, trust me."
Our eyes meet, and for a moment, I'm caught off guard by the intensity of his gaze. There's an ease to this conversation that I wasn't expecting, a comfort that feels both familiar and thrilling. It's as if we've known each other for years, not just a handful of chance encounters. I hadn’t expected the natural chemistry to translate off-screen. We’re friends. I like it.
But we're not just friends, are we? The thought whispers through my mind, sending a shiver down my spine. There's something more here, simmering just beneath the surface. I'm not sure I'm ready to name it yet, but I can't deny its presence.
Though I can't ignore the way Breck looks at me, his warm brown eyes never straying far from mine. It's like he's trying to memorize every detail of my face, and the intensity of his gaze makes my heart flutter in a way I haven't felt in a long time. Maybe ever.
"So, uh," I clear my throat, trying to regain my composure, "how's the team looking for the upcoming season?"
Breck's face lights up, but there's a hint of something else there too. "We're solid. Coach has us running drills like crazy, but..." He pauses, his hand inching closer to mine on the table. "Honestly? I can't stop thinking about you out there on the ice. The way you move, it's... mesmerizing."
I feel my cheeks flush, a warmth spreading through my chest. "I'm sure it's not nearly as exciting as watching you guys body-check each other into the boards," I quip, trying to deflect with humor.
He chuckles, the sound low and rich. "Trust me, Del. It's a whole different kind of exciting."
The conversation naturally begins to wind down, but neither of us seems eager to leave. We linger, our coffee cups long empty, but the air between us is charged with unspoken words and possibilities.
I find myself studying the curve of his jaw, the way his nose ring catches the light. It's ridiculous how attractive he is, and not just physically. There's a warmth to Breck, a genuineness that draws me in despite my best efforts to keep my walls up.
"I should probably get back to analyzing this footage," I say halfheartedly, not making any move to actually do so.
Breck nods, but his eyes are still locked on mine. "Yeah, I've got practice in a bit." He doesn't move either.
My heart is racing, and I can't quite place why. Is it nerves? Excitement? Fear? Maybe all of the above. All I know is that I'm not ready for this moment to end, even though I know it has to.
I watch as Breck's eyes flick to his watch, and a flicker of disappointment crosses his face. "Shit, I really do need to go," he says, his voice tinged with regret.
Without thinking, I stand up when he does, my body moving of its own accord. "Oh, right," I say, feeling a bit foolish. Why am I standing? It's not like I'm leaving.
As I'm mentally berating myself, I feel a light brush against my hand. My eyes snap to where Breck's fingers have grazed mine, and suddenly, it's like every nerve ending in my body is on high alert. A jolt of electricity shoots through me, leaving me breathless.
"Del," Breck says softly, and I force myself to meet his gaze. Those warm brown eyes are full of an intensity I've never seen before, and it makes my stomach do a backflip that would impress even the toughest skating judges.
Before I can process what's happening, Breck pulls me into a hug. It's not the quick, bro-hug I've seen him give his teammates. No, this is different. His arms envelope me completely, and I find myself melting into his warmth.
Just when I think my heart can't race any faster, I feel his lips press against my temple in a lingering kiss. My eyes flutter closed, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe.
"We should do this again," Breck murmurs against my skin. "Deliberately next time."
As he pulls away, I manage to find my voice. "Yeah," I whisper, surprised by how breathless I sound. "I'd like that."