Chapter Four #2
The second she stepped on the ice, she owned it. Commanded the attention of everyone in the room. Made all her tricks look completely effortless. And coming from someone who had very limited knowledge of figure skating, that was saying something.
I distinctly remember asking her out two years ago. She had been a sophomore at U of C and already the best skater on the Nationals team.
“Abrams!” I’d shouted, leaning over the rink boards. She’d still been on the ice, a medal gleaming around her neck, sweat dampening the strands of auburn hair sticking to her face. My guys had whooped behind me, slapping me on the back. I realize now just how obnoxious we must have looked.
She’d turned, cocked her head, and let her gaze drag over me, an eyebrow raised. Deliberating.
The cocky NHL rookie in me had soaked up that look like a sponge. That look was a challenge.
“Go out with me,” I’d said, grinning. I’d broken up with my on-again-off-again girlfriend and I’d been prowling.
A ghost of a smile had flickered on her mouth as she’d skated up—close enough that I could feel the chill from the ice still clinging to her skin.
She’d leaned in, breath warm against my ear. “In your dreams, McKnight.”
Then she was gone, gliding backward with a smirk, leaving me standing there like an idiot.
The team roasted me for weeks.
I hadn’t taken it too hard. Monroe Abrams was a long shot for any guy, and I had ended up getting back together with my girlfriend a couple of weeks later.
Her fall was something that will be talked about in the skating circuit for decades, if not longer.
I wouldn’t be surprised if it turned into some kind of docuseries at some point.
The most promising skater in U.S. history in a freak accident on a landing with her partner that pulverized her ankle.
There were a few months after the accident when her face had been all over the news.
I’m pulled back to the present when she snaps her fingers in my face.
“Oh my God.” She pulls her other earbud out of the opposite ear. “Let me ask you something, Rhodes McKnight,” she spits. I’d never seen Monroe angry before. Annoyed, sure. That’s like her general state of being. But angry? Nope.
“If I took away your ability to play the way you do, the very reason you fucking breathe, and gave you half of what you have now, told you you’d never make the playoffs again, strip you of your team and your talent and your titles,” her voice was low now, dangerous. “Would you still get on the ice?”
“I’d rather have less ice than no ice at all,” I replied easily. It was true. Skating is in my blood. There isn’t a world in which I can even imagine not spending hours on the ice every single day.
She lets out a bitter laugh at my response. “You’re wrong,” she says. “You think so. But you’re wrong.” She levels a glare at me again, breaking eye contact as she places the earbuds back in her ears and continues scrubbing at the baseboards.
I’ve clearly been dismissed, and I still have no idea why she’s working at the rink. If she is so miserable, why is she here?
I’m still standing up when I hear her.
“You wouldn’t want to even be near the ice,” she mutters. I stare at the back of her head for a moment before I can get my feet to move.
I’m still thinking about her words when I get to the locker room.
The scalding water of my shower is enough to wake me up. I’m pissed. Pissed at Jax. Pissed at myself for not being enough for my team. For letting my dad get in my head. For letting Coach Abrams down.
It’s another forty minutes before I’m finished getting dressed. I pass Monroe on my way out. She’s moved on to cleaning the windows, completely ignoring me. I shove open the rink doors, flexing my fists as I get back to my car.
Now I’m pissed at Monroe, too, wasting whatever talent she has left to scrub toilets. Letting the other girls on the National team talk to her like dirt.
My phone buzzes in my center console and a call lights up on my screen.
Dad calling. Again.
I hit ignore. Again.
* * * *
“Rhodes!” I’m roused from my afternoon couch nap by banging on my front door.
I close my eyes. Beck. I know the second I sit down face-to-face with him, he’s going to see directly past my bullshit. I can hide how much I’m struggling at practice because it’s so fast-paced, and there is very little one-on-one time with any of the guys.
I haven’t told him my dad is calling again. He doesn’t know how close I am to being off the team. He’s my best friend and he’d do anything for me, but like everyone else, he has his own stuff to deal with.
“Go away!” I yell back. He is so tired of my shit right now.
“I will rip the door off its hinges, Rhodes! Let me in!”
I sigh and roll off my couch, sauntering slowly to the front door on purpose. I yank it open and Beck comes barreling into my front entryway.
He’s holding a six-pack of beers and a pizza, and I grin despite myself. I take the beers from him and he slaps me on the shoulder, probably just barely keeping himself from giving me a hug.
Beck is touchy like that.
He’s been my best friend since we were both drafted two years ago for the Wolverines.
We were new on the team, fresh off the draft and eager to prove ourselves.
Beck was a killer skater, a solid teammate, and he was fucking nice to everyone.
While he was busy making friends with the entire team, I was more guarded, less willing to focus on anything other than the game.
The only reason I am as well-liked as I am is because of Beck.
“All right, dude,” he says, munching on a slice of pepperoni pizza. He takes a swig of his beer to swallow it down. I raise my eyebrows in question. Here we go.
“You’ve been hiding.” I open my mouth to argue, but he holds up a hand. “I don’t want to hear it. I know you, Rhodes. I let you wallow and sulk, but now we’re doing this.” I shut my jaw, resigned. “What’s going on, man? Coach has been on your ass. You’re suspended.”
I exhale a heavy sigh and rub my hand on the back of my neck. “Coach threatened to send me to the minor leagues, too.” I wince.
“What the hell?” Beck sets his beer down. I nod.
“Yeah. Coach said my lack of leadership and fights on the ice were enough to make him reconsider my position on the team.”
“Well, shit.” I drink my beer and nod again. “What else?” He asks.
“Nothing, man,” I say quietly.
“Don’t bullshit me.”
I let the silence sit thick around us for a moment before I decide to let him all the way in. He was going to be pissed. There was no one who hated my dad more than Beck—except maybe my sister.
“My dad’s calling again.”
Anger flashes across his face. “Of course he fucking is,” he snaps. “He always does. What kind of bender is he on this time?”
“No idea,” I say honestly. “I haven’t answered the phone.”
“How long?”
“Just since Christmas.”
He snaps his eyes to me, glaring. “So a few weeks? Rhodes, you’ve gotta tell Coach. Tell Kelsey, before he runs his mouth about you when you’re already in hot water.”
He was right. My dad had a habit of selling inflammatory stories to the press, no matter how untrue. And with my current standing right now, they’d probably eat it up.
“Yeah,” I say, tipping my head back to finish my drink.
“By the end of the week, man. You’ve got to tell them. He could make this so much worse for you, especially if you aren’t replying.” I hang my head back along the edge of my chair, pinching the bridge of my nose with my fingers.
“Yeah,” is all I can say. “I know.”