Chapter Eight
Rhodes
Fuck, she’s going to have to skate. The thought keeps rolling over and over in my head.
She didn’t skate with me yesterday, despite my invitation, and I haven’t seen her since our impromptu ambush meeting with Elsie. It was obvious she hadn’t expected to skate while working here—let alone teach a clinic.
I love running the hockey clinics. The kids are a blast, they actually listen, and it’s gratifying as hell to play a small part in shaping their love for the game.
I sign up to coach every chance I’m able to.
This time of year is tough with playoffs coming up, and all the ice time I’m clocking as captain.
But still, if Elsie wants me to teach, I’ll do what I can to make it work.
Monroe used to teach them too, but we’d never taught a tandem clinic together.
I know she was good at them—the clinics she taught before her accident always had giant wait lists.
Elsie was like a grumpy but proud mom when it came to Monroe.
Between her and Coach Abrams, it had seemed like I was constantly inundated with Monroe-facts back then, slowly filing them away in my brain for later, I guess.
I look at the time on the alarm clock next to my bed. Nine-fifty-eight p.m.
I was struggling hard with sleep these days.
Between the stress of the team, Kelsey breathing down my neck with dozens of interviews and panels and sponsorships, the constant calls from my dad, my head just refuses to shut down for the night.
I squeeze my eyes shut and count backward from one hundred, willing sleep to come.
When I get all the way down to one and I’m still just as wired as I was before, I decide to say fuck it and head to the rink.
I wasn’t technically supposed to use it this late after hours, but Elsie had given me a key a long time ago. She’d been there for me my first year on the Wolverines, and helped me become less of a punk. She realized quickly that I was less of a menace if I had more ice access.
“Don’t wear this key out, McKnight,” she’d warned. I’d ignored her. I used that key all the time. I knew she knew, because there are cameras all over the rink, but she’s never said a word about it to me. Just let me clock the ice time I needed to burn off extra energy.
The drive to the arena is short and quiet in the dark, the hum of my heater blasting full heat the only sound.
I park, brave the cold, and grab my skates from my passenger seat. There were a few lights still on in the main lobby, which surprised me. It should be totally dark this time of night. I don’t know of anyone else who’d have a key, unless Elsie is working late for some reason.
I take a left in the hall toward the rink, and the lights in there are on, too. Not the full set—just enough to dimly illuminate the arena.
I see her sitting in the dark on the bench. Monroe’s back is to me, and she’s staring at the ice.
I suck in a breath, pausing. I lean my shoulder against the doorway, and my eyes rake down her back before landing on her feet. No fucking way.
Skates.
It’s clear she thought she was going to be alone here for this, and I almost feel bad for intruding. Almost.
“You gonna get on the ice, Abrams?” I say, startling her. “Or are you just going to stare at it?”
Monroe whips around so fast I’m shocked she doesn’t get whiplash. “Oh my God,” she says sharply. “Why are you everywhere?”
I huff a laugh. “Fate, probably,” I reply, walking and dropping down onto the cold metal bench next to her.
“Fate’s got a messed-up sense of humor then,” she mutters, frowning.
“You’ve got skates on,” I note.
“You’re well-known for your brains, I see,” she deadpans. I nudge her with my shoulder and she shrugs me off. I don’t take it personally. That’s just how Monroe is. I like the sass.
“So?” I raise my eyebrows at her in challenge, trying to get her to take the bait.
“What?” she snaps.
I tilt my head toward the dim rink. “You gonna get on the ice?”
She shrugs, like this isn’t a huge deal. I take my time lacing up my own skates, letting the silence stretch between us. She watches every move, eyes locked onto my hands as I pull the laces tight. I slow my movements, feeling her gaze track every shift.
Good. Let her think about it.
“Well, I’m skating,” I say with finality, slapping my hands on my knees. “Come join me.” I stand and offer her a hand.
She ignores it, still glaring at the rink. “No.”
I sigh and step out onto the ice, gliding a full, lazy circle around the arena. I had planned to run some drills tonight, but plans change.
And now I had a new plan. Operation Get Monroe Abrams Back On The Ice.
I clearly couldn’t handle anything else going on in my life right now, but I could do this. I could help Monroe. I needed a fucking win.
I skid to a stop in front of her, leaning over the boards. She isn’t on the ice, but she hasn’t left yet either.
Progress.
“Okay, hear me out,” I say. She rolls her eyes and cuts daggers in my direction, silent and angry. She doesn’t stop me, though, so I keep going, ignoring her glare.
“One lap. Just one. Get on the ice, skate a single lap, and I’ll shut up. I won’t bring up skating again. Hell, I’ll even ignore your existence completely, if that’s what you want.”
That’s a bold-faced lie, considering the space she’s been taking up in my brain over the last week. She’s been impossible to ignore since she came stomping back into the rink, and I’ve really tried.
Whatever. If she gets on the ice, it’ll be worth the inconvenience of having her live rent-free in my head.
“Is this some kind of joke to you? Do you get off on forcing women to do things they don’t want to do?”
“Okay, well that’s insulting,” I reply dryly, lazily skating around again. “I never do anything that doesn’t have full, enthusiastic consent.” I shoot her a wink. Her eyes roll so far back into her head, I worry they’ll get stuck there.
Come on, Monroe.
“This is stupid.” Her teeth rake over her full bottom lip, and I struggle to force my eyes away from it. That image isn’t going to help with getting her out of my head. Before I can get lost in thinking about what else her lips can do, I continue.
“There’s nobody here but me, and I’m not laughing.” I let my words sink in, suddenly serious. “This isn’t a joke, Abrams.” My voice drops lower. “You getting back on the ice? That’s not stupid. It’s brave.”
Her dark lashes frame hazel eyes. I trail the light freckles on the top of her nose and follow the lines of her face with my gaze, holding my breath.
“I can’t do it,” she says, averting her gaze and looking straight past me.
“Yes, you fucking can.” God, she’s so stubborn. “Come on, Monroe. There is nobody more comfortable on the ice than you, except maybe me,” I tease, attempting to lighten the heavy atmosphere surrounding us on the ice now.
She doesn’t laugh.
“Why do you care so much?” Her eyes are back on me now. How the hell do I keep them there?
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Why. Do. You. Care.” She punctuates every word. “Why I’m here at the rink, whether or not I get on the ice. This has nothing to do with you. This affects you zero percent.” She’s exasperated, and she’s not wrong.
“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “It bothers me that someone like you let an injury take your ice away from you.”
Her laugh is sharp. “It wasn’t just a fucking injury, Rhodes,” she growls. “It ended my entire career. And now Elsie wants me to teach kids how to do what I will never be able to fully do again. Put yourself in my shoes for a second.”
I nod in understanding. She’d been dealt such a shitty hand.
“I think you’re selling yourself short,” I reply. “You’re better than that.”
“I’m really not,” she mutters. I groan internally.
“All right,” I say. Let’s try a different approach. “Five minutes.”
Her head snaps up at me, eyes narrowed. There it is. There’s still some fight left, some competition. This girl used to live for the ice, for winning. I’m desperate to see that flash of defiance again. “For what?” She’s annoyed but curious. Good. How far can I push her?
“Five minutes before I shoot out a text to Elsie, telling her you’re backing out of the clinic.”
“What the fuck, Rhodes?” There is venom in her voice. “Don’t screw with me.” Okay, maybe this was too far but I’m not backing down now. She’s pissed, but that just means her attention is on me and, apparently, I like it there.
“I need a clinic partner who will skate with me if I’m going to be teaching twenty-five little kids how to stay off their asses on the ice,” I snap back now, no teasing.
If she wants a fight, I’ll give one to her.
“This isn’t about you,” I continue. “So if you’re not going to do it, I’ll just ask Natalie. ”
Her eyes flash. There she is. The knowledge that Natalie took Monroe’s Olympic spot had been national news—it would have been nearly impossible to miss if you were on social media at all. So it was a cheap shot, using her rival against her, but if it works, it works.
She glares at me and slumps down onto the bench. Then her gaze cuts back up, sharp and dangerous. I smirk. I’ve almost got her. I can feel it.
Come on, Monroe. Get off your ass and onto the ice with me where you belong.
“Three minutes and twenty-three seconds.” I shrug, casually, checking the time on my watch.
“You’re serious?” If looks could kill, I’d be in a hundred bloody pieces on this ice.
“Yup. Two minutes and fifteen seconds.” Her internal battle is fully displayed on her face.
“One minute, Abrams.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she mutters and stands up. So close.
“Forty-one seconds,” I taunt again, skating backward on the ice. Another check of my watch. “Twenty-two seconds.”
Her mouth thins into a line, focused. She steps forward and stands in front of the threshold. She just needs to take one step.
She lifts her left foot, crosses the gate—and her skate blade meets the ice.
The other follows. She looks up at me triumphantly, the ghost of a grin playing on the corners of her mouth.
“Hah,” she sneers.
“Technically, your time was up twenty-seven seconds ago.” My grin is feral as I glide up to her, stopping close enough to make her tilt her head up to look at me.
My hand goes out naturally, as if to steady her. She doesn’t need it. Her eyes flash to mine, determination steeled behind them.
“Shut up, Rhodes.”
Then she skates.