Chapter 3 #2
I shrug. I guess she’s right. It’s not as if any of them has ever crossed a line before, and it’s a little unfair of me to project my assumptions onto them without proof.
I grab my duffel from the hallway closet. “Okay, I’m out. I’ll see you later.”
“Have fun!” she calls toward my retreating back. “I’ll just be here, rotting into the couch!”
I snort and head out the door, making the short drive to the rink with my head in the clouds. My mind races with client folders from work and ways to let Gammy down gently and hockey guys and their wandering eyes.
It’s not long before I’m pulling into the parking lot of the rink and cutting the engine, and a horrible sense of not even knowing how I got here snaps me back into focus.
I’ve got to shed some of this stress, or I’m going to be a hunchback by the time I’m thirty.
The sky is pitch black, and the winter air hovers as I lock my car and walk inside, scanning the parking lot as a precaution. When the rink door shuts and locks behind me, restricting access to people with a membership fob of their own, I relax a little.
The rink smells like ice and rubber and sweat in a familiar and grounding way that settles a calm into my bones and reminds me why I dragged my tired ass here in the first place.
I lace up my skates and take off my hoodie, reveling in the relief that hits me as soon as my skates hit the ice.
The rink is blissfully empty, and my heart instantaneously full.
There are no hockey guys finishing up a game, no shouts or bodies being violently slammed into the glass, and no expectations or deadlines to be met.
There’s just the low hum of the lights overhead and the clean bite of cold air against my lungs as I free myself through the movement from one end of the rink to the other.
This is exactly what I needed.
I start my laps, letting muscle memory and rhythm take over. The tension of work and Gammy and weird feelings—along with a million other weights I didn’t even know I was holding—begins to loosen, and I can feel my shoulders drop as my breath evens out.
This is why I come here. This is peace. This is home.
Maybe it’s because it makes me feel close to my mom and dad—they met here at this very rink and fell in love nearly thirty years ago, before they had me.
Before they passed away. Maybe it’s because it’s the only thing I do just for me.
And who knows, maybe it’s even simpler—a true testimonial for the endorphins in exercise.
But whatever the reason, I’m grateful such a place exists.
I’m halfway through my fifth lap when all those good feelings start to meld with something of a different kind. It’s a subtle shift—a slight raise of my now-relaxed shoulders and a tingle at the back of my neck. But it’s enough to get my attention.
I slow my speed and move my eyes away from the ice and toward the plexi. I spot Holland on the other side of the glass, one shoulder resting on it casually. As our eyes meet, a soft smile spreads across his mouth.
“Long day?” he calls out toward me, and my stomach tightens a little.
How long has he been here? Why is he here? He’s not dressed in hockey gear, and the Fighting Fangs don’t usually practice on Monday nights anyway.
They’re harmless. Alyssa’s words ring out in my head, urging me to settle.
Holland Thorne and I have been interacting for going on two years at this point at an acquaintance level, and he’s probably trying to cross the threshold into friendly.
It’s not like I have to marry the guy, but it wouldn’t kill me to dial down the brain drama a click or two.
“Yeah,” I reply, skating toward him but stopping a few feet short, the wall still between us. “Pretty sure this is the eighty-fourth hour and counting.”
He’s still smiling as he pushes off the glass. “I had a feeling I’d find you here.”
“You came here looking for me?”
He shakes his head, rounding the wall to the opening and leaning into the side of it. “Well, technically, I just finished up a workout on the ice about forty minutes ago. Practice.” He shrugs and grins.
I guess they changed up their practice schedule.
“But I thought maybe you’d show up here to work out, so I hung around. I wanted to let you know about this private event thing I’m going to later this week.”
“Private event?” I question, taking in the way he’s dressed with sharp eyes. Suit. Tie. Perfectly groomed hair. He must’ve showered after his practice.
“Yeah. The firm I work at is having a private event on Friday night. Drinks. Dancing. Food. It’s more of a networking thing, but there will be a lot of people there who like to invest in…talent. I thought maybe you’d be interested, so I wanted to invite you.”
I don’t know what kind of firm Holland works at, but my brows knit over the casual way he’s inviting me on…a date? I don’t know if that’s what he’s getting at, but for the life of me, I can’t think of any other reason he’d be inviting me to some kind of work event for talent scouting.
“Talent?” I repeat. “What exactly does that have to do with me?”
I’m no Hollywood actress or model or singer. I’m a junior accountant who skates as a hobby.
“You skate beautifully, Kylie,” he says, like it’s a fact, not a compliment. “There are a lot of avenues where you could turn that talent into something else. Lots of people who’d love to utilize you. You’ve never thought about breaking away from the accounting gig?”
My responding laugh is quick and edged with strain. “Oh yeah. Only every tax season or so, when taking a bath with my toaster starts to sound reasonable. But not, like, seriously. For the most part, I like what I do.”
His smile is easy and patient. “No pressure. Totally your call. Just figured it might be something worthy of your time. And, well, I’d be there. So, yeah.” He winks. “It’d be fun too. We could hang out.”
Okay, yep. There’s the date part I was wondering about.
Which I’m absolutely not interested in. Holland seems nice, but he’s not even remotely my type.
Though, I’ve never thought about finding a way to turn my love and passion for ice skating into some kind of career. And turning down the opportunity to explore that just because I don’t want to lead him on feels a little hasty…
“That’s really…nice of you,” I answer, my voice hesitant with each word as I attempt to toe the thin line precariously placed between the two parts of me. “Can…I …uh…think about it?”
“Of course,” he replies, stepping aside without protest and offering another little wink in my direction. “If you want to go, you know where to find me.”
I push off again, starting up another lap to get back into a rhythm, but I only make it halfway around before meeting another observer.
Jiminy Cricket. So much for the rink being empty.
I slide to an agitated stop in front of Rook, who’s leaning against the bleachers. He, too, isn’t wearing skates or gear, but jeans and boots instead, and his eyes bore into the back of the retreating man in the suit at the other end of the arena like he can turn him to dust with his mind.
It’s oddly protective in a way I don’t understand and makes the hair on my forearms stand straight up.
I almost go back to skating, but something inside me just says, fuck it.
“Can I help you?” I ask, finding my voice and doing it with challenge.
Instantly, Rook’s eyes jump to mine, but that’s where the concessions on his aggressive posture stop. He swallows hard before shoving off the bleachers, charging down the back wall, and leaving the rink, out the door and into the parking lot through the same door Holland took without a word.
I’m left standing there with my mouth agape and my senses tingling like a fucking idiot.
What is with this guy?
Suddenly, the peace and respite I felt from the ice fifteen minutes ago is gone, and the desperate need for a shower cry and the comfort of my bed has taken its place.
Cutting my drills short, I skate off the ice with angry strides and shaking hands, pulling my sweatshirt on and yanking my blades off with little to no finesse.
Alyssa would probably laugh if she were here—probably tell me I’m the weird one, not the hockey guys, and that I’m letting them get to me too much.
Hell, she’d probably encourage me to go to the private event thing with Holland on Friday and book angry sex with Rook on Saturday, but none of that is even remotely me.
It’s a little after nine when I’m stepping out of the rink, my bag slung over my shoulder and a crease in my forehead from overanalysis, and the parking lot is expectedly quiet at this time of night.
I walk toward my Civic that’s parked toward the back of the lot, but pull to an abrupt stop when something throws a wrench in the plan.
Oh, come on. You have got to be kidding me.