Chapter Ten
Rhodes
It was exhilarating watching her skate, and devastating watching her spiral. She still moved like her blades were an extension of her body. Her injury had wrecked her confidence, and maybe her difficulty level, but she didn’t have to give up on skating for the rest of her life.
I had mulled over the skating victory in my head for the last week. After she’d stomped off, leaving me alone on the ice, I’d gone home tired, but feeling hopeful for the first time in months. Not for me or all my shit, that was all still kind of a nightmare, but…for her.
Monroe got back on the ice like a badass.
I knew I had been tough on her there at the end, and I knew it had had the possibility of backfiring, especially after the panic attack.
I had toed the line of understanding and asshole really closely.
She’d been absolutely pissed when she left.
I don’t really expect anything more than that toward me from her.
But she got on the ice.
I try and fail to stop my grin from spreading in the dark of my bedroom.
We hadn’t run into each other over the last few days at the rink, and I’d be lying if I said that didn’t bother me.
I was coming to expect her there. Between practices with Coach Abrams, PR meetings with Kelsey, and brainstorming ways to connect the team, I was running on fumes.
And I was running out of time. Fuck.
The playoffs were looming closer, and we were barely on the bubble right now. Thank God my suspension was lifted after our last game and I’m back on the ice.
The games were becoming more crucial to qualifying, and we barely had two months to pull our heads out of our asses. Sixteen teams make it through, and we weren’t even in a wild card spot right now. We barely have time to turn it around, and that window is getting tighter.
My phone buzzes loudly from my nightstand, breaking me out of my thoughts. I flinch, my automatic reaction these days, before flipping it over.
An unknown number flashes across the screen at me. I squint my eyes to read the message.
Unknown (9:43pm): Can you skate right now?
No greeting. No explanation.
I frown at my screen. Stupid question. I can always fucking skate.
Me (9:45pm): Who is this?
Three dots appear. Vanish. Appear again.
Unknown (9:46pm): Monroe.
Her name on my screen shouldn’t make my stomach drop.
And yet—
Me (9:47pm): I can skate.
Monroe (9:47pm): Meet me at the rink.
That’s it.
I don’t ask questions.
I grab my keys, my skates, and I get out of the door.
* * * *
The rink is quiet when I step inside. She’s already here. Already on the ice.
I lean my shoulder against the doorway and let myself look. Just for a second, before she notices me.
Gray cropped tank. Black leggings. White skates. A long auburn braid trailing down her back.
My gaze drags over her—the curve of her waist, the strength in her legs, the way her muscles flex beneath smooth skin. She hasn’t trained in a year, but fuck if you could tell.
Monroe takes a turn, gliding slowly, like she needs to think about putting one foot in front of the other, and I can’t look away. Her brows are furrowed in concentration.
Damn, she looks good.
I shake the thought off. There is no universe where me thinking Monroe Abrams looks absolutely edible ends well for me.
“Look. At. You, Abrams.” I whistle low, appreciatively. I like playing with fire, apparently. She glances over and side-eyes me as I walk up to the rink boards. I lean forward, still watching her skate.
“You come for a show or you gonna get on the ice?” she calls across the rink to me, skating to a stop, one eyebrow cocked. And fuck me if I don’t love a girl with an attitude.
“Do I have an option?” I smirk at her and she waits, letting me continue. “Because I’m going to choose the show every damn time.” Her eyes roll to the back of her head.
“Put your skates on.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She snorts a laugh.
I quickly lace up my skates and join her on the ice, matching her slow, steady strokes. We don’t speak for a while, opting to just skate in silence. It’s not uncomfortable. I have the feeling she just needed company.
“You look good out here, Abrams.” I glide up in front of her and turn to face her.
“Shut up,” she snarks. “I didn’t text you to come here to give me compliments on my rudimentary skating skills.”
“First of all, I’m not talking about your skating skills,” I say and hear her retaliating huff. “Second, why did you text me to come here?”
She hesitates. A flicker of something crosses her face before she schools it back into indifference. Her hazel eyes meet mine, fierce and determined.
“I tried to skate a few days ago,” she says finally. “I got here, put on my skates…” A deep inhale. “And I couldn’t step onto the ice.”
She looks pissed just saying it, like the words physically hurt. A girl like her has had the word failure removed from her vocabulary since birth.
I wait, silent and expectant. There’s no judgment from me.
She exhales sharply.
“For some fucking reason, McKnight,” she grits out, reluctant as hell, “I skate better when you’re here.”
Triumphant isn’t a strong enough word for what I feel.
I can’t stop my grin. She looks murderous, and my dick twitches. I give a mental down boy to my lower appendage. I am developing a serious problem. A redhead with an attitude problem. A capital-M Monroe Problem.
“How’d you get my number?”
She looks away, embarrassed.
“Mm,” she says, avoiding me on the ice. I raise my eyebrows. “I grabbed it from my dad’s roster in his office.”
I bark a laugh at her. “You stole my number, Abrams?” She scowls at me. “Nobody’s ever wanted my number so badly that they resorted to theft before.”
“Shut up,” she mutters.
“The invitation to skate in the mornings is still open,” I say. “We don’t have to come here like spies under the cover of darkness.”
Her mouth pinches into a thin line, and she shakes her head.
“I like it better at night,” she slowly admits. “I don’t really want to risk running into the Nationals team. Or Elsie. Or anyone else.”
I skid to a stop and grab her arm, stopping her with me. I level her with a stare. “Who else knows you’re skating again?”
Because if it’s just me…if I’m the only one she’s trusted with this…
“Just you.”
She looks up, meeting my eyes. We’re close.
Closer than we should be. Close enough that I can see every fleck of green and gold in her eyes.
It means something if I’m the only one she’s let in on the secret.
It’s suddenly very important to me that I don’t screw up whatever tenuous trust she’s put in me.
For a second, she’s unguarded. There is a palpable vulnerability. The spell is broken when she shoves me right in the chest.
“So don’t fucking tell anyone.”
I chuckle harshly, and drag my hand down my face. “They’ll know once you start teaching the clinic that you’re skating again,” I remind her. “I’m sure Elsie already knows, since she’s the one who put you up to it.”
“Yeah, I know,” she mutters. “But…it’s just for me right now.”
And me, I think. It’s for me, too.
“Okay, Abrams,” I say loudly, grabbing her attention. “Do one of your fancy tricks.”
“Hell, no,” she retorts, reeling back.
“Come on,” I taunt. “You’re gonna have to try it at some point. We can’t skate in a circle forever. Do one of your—” I try to think of any of the figure-skating terms. Nothing comes to my brain. “Toe loop spins.” I make a mental note to learn more figure-skating terms.
She snorts. “A toe loop spin? You know that’s not a trick, right?”
I roll my eyes, feigning indifference. “Whatever. The jump you do with your toe thing.”
“It’s a toe pick, and I’m not doing that.” I reach for her to stop her from moving away from me, but she skates out of reach and my hand grabs air instead.
“Just a regular spin, then. Something other than skating forward. We’re going for progress here.” It’s my turn to throw her an exasperated look.
“Hey, I’ve been skating backward, too.” She’s indignant.
“Monroe,” I chide. “Come on. The clinic is in less than two months. Let’s see what we’re working with.” I see her contemplating my words.
Right where I want you.
“Fuck you,” she mutters as she skates past. Typical.
She exhales, slow and steady, but I can see it—the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers flex like she’s trying to shake out the nerves.
She’s thinking about it. Then she takes off, skating down the ice, giving herself some momentum.
I hold my breath, eyes tracking every movement.
Her blade digs into the ice, shifting her weight onto her right foot. She pushes off, lifting onto the ball of her foot, and suddenly she’s spinning.
The world blurs around her—tight, controlled rotations, smooth and effortless. Her arms are tucked in close, the auburn strands in her braid reflecting the fluorescent lights above us.
She slows, arms lowering, skates carving a perfect edge as she lands back into a steady glide.
Monroe stops. Breathes. Looks right at me, and for the first time since she stepped on the ice, she doesn’t look nervous.
I grin, arms crossed, watching her process what just happened.
“Atta girl.” The words leave my mouth before I can stop them.
Monroe rolls her eyes, but she can’t hide the small, almost disbelieving smile tugging at her lips.
She did it.
And now, I want more. I’m greedy.
“All right, hotshot.” I skate forward, my mouth quirking up as her gaze snaps to me. “Now that we’ve established that turns aren’t going to kill you, let’s see a jump.”
Her entire body goes rigid. Yeah. That’s what I thought.
The spin was one thing, figure skating one-oh-one. But she’s going to have to jump eventually.
“I’m not ready.”
“You won’t know when you’re ready unless you actually try.”
She flicks her eyes to me, a decision made, then skates forward, slow and deliberate. Measured, like she’s trying to trick her body into believing it can do this before her brain catches up.
Her hands flex. Her shoulders lock.
I know what’s happening. I see it in the way her breathing tightens, the slight hitch in her step.
Her mind is fighting her. The memory of her fall, the injury, the aftermath—it’s still there, lingering, waiting to drag her down with it.
I’ve watched guys in hockey go through similar struggles after major injuries.
It sucks to think of her struggling all by herself. Every time I’ve seen Monroe since she’s come back to the rink, she’s been alone. The Monroe I remember was constantly surrounded by people. I make another mental note to ask Coach why the hell Monroe doesn’t have anyone making sure she’s okay.
My jaw locks. My fingers curl into fists at my sides, and my gaze follows her increasing speed, tracking the slice of her blades.
Come on, Abrams.
Her knee bends. Her blade carves into the ice. I hold my breath.
I’m not a figure-skating pro, but even I can tell it’s not going to land. I see the smallest flinch right before her takeoff—barely there, but it’s enough to throw her entire balance off. Her foot wobbles.
The sound of her hitting the ice is like a slap to my chest.
“Shit,” I breathe, skating toward her before I even think about it.
She doesn’t move at first. She’s lying there, her palms flat against the ice, her head bowed like she’s trying to breathe through whatever’s clawing up her throat.
I don’t say anything yet. I don’t want to treat her like glass. She’s not. But I want to help if she needs me. And for some inexplicable reason, I really want her to need me.
A sharp exhale. Then—
“Fuck!” She slaps her palm against the ice in frustration, blinking hard, her jaw tight.
Her hands tremble as she pushes herself up, and I see not pain, not fear—rage.
She’s pissed. At herself. At me. Monroe doesn’t give herself room to be frustrated, only furious.
“Monroe—” I start.
“Shut up.” She levels a glare that could melt the entire arena. She blinks tears back, and I’m surprised to see them, glistening at the corners of her eyes.
I stop. She pushes up to sit, swipes at her damp waterline and hisses, “I wasn’t ready for that.”
“You were.”
“I wasn’t. You just saw me eat it.”
“Yeah, you were.” My voice is steady. If she isn’t going to have the confidence she needs, I’m just going to have to have it for her. “You had it, you just psyched yourself out. It happens with athletes all the time.”
Then she’s back up on her skates, and she shoves me.
She’s not strong enough to really move me, but I take a half-step back anyway, giving her the space she is not-so-kindly asking for. She moves forward anyway, matching me skate for skate.
“You don’t get to push me like this,” she snaps, her hands flat against my chest. “You don’t get to decide when I’m ready, Rhodes. I decide.”
I exhale, running a hand through my hair. When has she decided to try anything lately? “Monroe—”
“No, I said shut up,” she cuts me off. “I’m not one of your Wolverines. I didn’t ask you here to play coach. I’m not some project for you to project your failed captain skills on.”
My jaw tics. She doesn’t get it. But she needs to direct her anger somewhere, and right now it’s at me and not herself, so I’ll take it. I’m a big boy. Her feelings don’t scare me.
“You’re right,” I say, my voice low. “You’re not. But skating isn’t over for you, Monroe.”
Her laugh is sharp, humorless. “You don’t know shit about me, Rhodes.”
Then she skates off, leaving me standing there like a fucking idiot. Again.
I don’t go after her. I just watch her disappear, the scene frustratingly familiar to our previous skate. I push, she gets pissed, she leaves.
I exhale a visible breath into the cold of the rink and shake my head, attempting to push Monroe out of it. My first game back is tomorrow, and I need to pull myself together.