Chapter Twenty-One
Monroe
The clinic begins tomorrow, eight a.m. sharp.
I’ve spent weeks now preparing for this, and still, nothing about this feels easy. My anxiety is sky-high, tightening like a vise around my rib cage.
The rink at night has become my solace as I worked to prepare. My routine of school during the day and clinic prep at night has given my days some much-needed structure. Two months ago, I never could have imagined sitting here, right now, with the Wolverine’s hockey captain on speed dial.
Every now and then, if I’m at the rink during the day, I’ll see someone at the rink I used to know—a Nationals team skater, an old coach or two.
It shakes me but I’ve gotten better at letting some of it go, ignoring the glances and whispers when I pass them.
They can say whatever they want about me, but it’s too late for me to back out now, and I’d never do that to Elsie.
So if they want to talk shit, I guess that’s on them.
I exhale, shaking my head at myself, and try to focus. My notes are everywhere—pages spread across my coffee table, my couch, my lap. The dim glow of my desk lamp flickers over my scribbled-out diagrams, skill breakdowns, and a tentative lesson plan.
My laptop is open beside me, paused on a slow-motion video of my own skating. I’ve spent the last hour watching my old competitions and critiquing my own damn form like a judge at Worlds.
I stretch my legs out, flexing my ankle. At the very least, I’ve done every skill I plan on teaching in the last few weeks. I’m not a fraud, I repeat to myself for the umpteenth time tonight.
My phone buzzes beside me.
Rhodes (7:30pm): Come outside.
I frown, glancing toward my front window. I push up from the couch, peeking through the blinds. I wasn’t expecting him tonight.
Rhodes is outside, leaning against his Land Rover, arms crossed, backlit by the dimming dusk.
Rhodes (7:32pm): I can see you. Come outside. I’m breaking you out.
Monroe (7:34pm): Why? Where are we going? I have so many questions.
Rhodes (7:35pm): Ask them from the passenger seat, princess. Let’s go!
I glance at my clinic notes one more time, try to will my focus back—
Then, with a sigh, I toss them onto the couch and grab my keys.
* * * *
I turn the seat warmer on, because even though it’s the beginning of March, Connecticut still feels like the inside of a walk-in freezer.
Rhodes glances at me, biting back a grin. “Cold, Abrams?”
“It’s thirty-one degrees out, McKnight.” I crank up the heat higher, just to be petty. He shrugs his shoulders in mock surrender.
“Where are we going?” I ask, shifting in my seat.
“To get food, then back to your apartment to eat food. And then, if you want to go over your clinic notes one more time, we can.”
I roll my eyes. “That sounded very boyfriend-y, Rhodes.”
He rolls his eyes. “It is boyfriend-y, Monroe.”
I shake my head at him. He’s completely insufferable lately—not that I’m giving him any red lights anymore, anyways. We’ve been…something for a month now. I’m not ready for a label, but he sure as hell is.
“This is strictly selfish,” he defends, throwing the car into drive. “I want to compare notes, make sure we’re on the same page for our joint skates.” He shrugs. “And I’m hungry.”
“Hmm,” I say, crossing my arms, considering his words. I decide he’s full of shit, but allow it anyway.
We pull into the parking lot of Stew Leonard’s, the local grocery store, and he parks.
Before I’ve even unbuckled my seatbelt, Rhodes is already out, coming around to my side.
He opens my door and holds out a hand like a perfect gentleman.
I roll my lips together in a line. He makes it absolutely impossible not to think he’s wonderful, and it’s turning into a problem.
“After you.” He smirks. His fingers skim my lower back as I step out, the warmth of them cutting through the cold. I’ve given up willing my body not to react to his. Spending copious amounts of alone time with Rhodes McKnight is a dangerous game. I’m losing.
The store is quiet at almost eight p.m. We’re two of the only people perusing the aisles, our cart filled with groceries that are more and more closely resembling what children would pick out if given free rein in a convenience store.
“Favorite snack?” he asks, tossing in three bags of chips without looking.
I scan the shelves, grabbing a bag of pretzels and throwing them in.
Rhodes stops dead in his tracks. “Pretzels?” He grabs the bag out of the cart and holds it up. “Come on, you’ve gotta like something more exciting than that.”
I huff and snatch the bag back. “I need cream cheese.”
Rhodes blinks. “Pretzels and cream cheese?”
“It’s my favorite snack. Don’t knock it till you try it.”
“That’s gross.” But he grins as he follows me over to the dairy aisle.
Rhodes ducks into the ice cream section and comes back with two pints, tossing them onto the growing mountain of food in our cart.
“We need bread. And cheese,” he says, looking at the aisle signs.
I raise an eyebrow.
“Grilled cheese, Monroe. Please keep up.”
I fight back a smile. “Grilled cheese is your favorite snack?”
“No,” he scoffs. “But grilled cheese is my superstition food. Gotta eat one the night before a big game.”
I squint. “Is this…science?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He leans against the cart. “One time, before I was in the NHL, I was playing a college game. Frozen Four. I ate a grilled cheese the night before, and we won it all. Obviously, that means grilled cheese is lucky, so now every night before something big, I’ve gotta eat one.”
I tilt my head. “You know this clinic isn’t a big deal for you, right? You’ve done these a million times.”
“Yeah, Monroe,” he says, voice softer. “But it’s a big deal for you. So, grilled cheese. It’s good luck.” He taps the processed cheese and tosses it into the cart.
I stare at his back, dumbfounded. Here’s this six-foot-three hockey god, who I’m still keeping at kind of a distance, taking me grocery shopping and sharing his good luck food with me.
I clear my throat, following him from the dairy aisle to the bread aisle. “If I choke on this and the clinic sucks, I’m blaming you.”
Rhodes just smiles, plucking a loaf of bread off the shelf.
“Deal, sweetheart. Now let’s go make some grilled cheeses.”
* * * *
Spoiler—the grilled cheese is actually really damn good. Like really, really good. Rhodes must have spent years honing the perfect melty, cheesy craft.
“I know you’re fighting giving me a compliment right now,” Rhodes points a knife at me, mouth full of food, “but I can tell that this is the best fucking grilled cheese of your life, so I’m going to take the compliment anyways.”
I snort. “So confident. How do you know I haven’t had a better grilled cheese?” I haven’t.
“Not possible. I could open a restaurant and just sell these.” He’s right. He totally could. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction, though, so I just take another bite and roll my eyes.
He looks young like this. Gray sweatshirt, matching sweats. Hair curling slightly over his forehead, around his ears. Navy-blue eyes locked on me. Smile playing on his mouth. I can picture what college Rhodes must have looked like, wrecking all kinds of havoc on campus girls.
Damn, he really is pretty.
My phone lights up on the table next to me, the soft glow catching my attention. I glance at the screen—and my stomach drops.
Aaron. I go completely still.
Rhodes notices. “Who’s it from?” His voice is easy, casual—but his eyes aren’t. They’re narrowed at the phone on the table.
I hesitate, just for a second too long. “Uh,” I start. “Aaron, actually.”
“Your old pairs partner?” He glances at my phone again. “He’s been texting you?”
I exhale through my nose, staring at the name on my screen. I have no idea what Rhodes knows about how Aaron and I fell apart, what rumors have made their way through the ice rink grapevine, back then or right now.
In a way, I felt for Aaron. He’d been a casualty of the accident, too. What do you do when you’re a pairs skater on track to go to the Olympics and your partner has a career-ending accident?
You find a new partner and you skate.
If I had been in Aaron’s position, would I have sacrificed my career for him? No. I wouldn’t have. I don’t blame him for continuing to skate.
But I blame him for everything else.
He chose not to tell me first when he decided to go with Natalie as his new pair.
As much as it would have stung, I was obviously not in any condition to go to the Olympics.
I would have been a lot less hurt if I’d found out from him, and not a press release after weeks of not talking to me.
Seven years of friendship and it was radio silence.
We hadn’t talked since the accident.
“No,” I say slowly. “I’m not sure why he’s texting me.”
Rhodes’ jaw tightens. “Do you think he heard about you skating again?”
I shrug, even though my stomach churns. “I’m sure. Elsie would’ve had to share who was teaching the clinic. Maybe one of the Nationals girls heard and it got back to him.”
“Are you going to read the text?” Rhodes asks.
I probably should. But the thought makes my stomach turn over, my fingers twitching against the table. Not that I’d tell Rhodes that.
“Do you want me to read it first?”
My eyes flick up to his. Again with his boyfriend behavior. Then I’m clicking open on the screen myself.
Aaron (9:30pm): Hey, M. Heard you’re teaching the clinic tomorrow. Teaching is such a solid alternative to competing. So glad to see you got back on the ice, regardless of your level. <3
I grip the phone so hard my knuckles turn white. A slow burn crawls up my spine. My pulse pounds in my ears. It’s the heart emoji that does it, honestly. Like he didn’t just patronize the hell out of me and call me a washed-up has-been in one text.
Someone’s been taking personality lessons from Natalie, it seems. That’s surprising to me. Aaron has always been snarky, just never to me.
I can feel Rhodes watching me. His energy has shifted.
“What’d he say?”
I grind my molars together, exhaling sharply through my nose. “Nothing. Just—wishing me luck.”
Rhodes says nothing, but I can feel his stare drilling into the side of my head.
I set my phone face-down on the table.
“I’m fine, Rhodes. Eat your grilled cheese.”
I’m not fine. I’m keyed up, snapping at Rhodes when he didn’t do anything wrong. The combination of the clinic starting tomorrow, being on the ice in front of people again… Aaron’s text is just the icing on the cake.
I feel Rhodes’ eyes on me from across the table, his stare burning into my skin.
“Monroe,” he murmurs, voice husky and low. My eyes flick sharply up to his. “Aaron doesn’t deserve the space you’re giving him in your head right now.”
I open my mouth, but no words come out. Rhodes continuously surprises me with how well he sees past my bullshit. After a full year of hiding and self-sabotage, I don’t even know what to do with this.
And the way he’s looking at me now—steady, expectant—makes heat curl deep in my stomach.
“How badly do you want to help me relax tonight?” I say, surprising even myself. His navy-blue eyes narrow, his finger twitching against the table.
“Say the word, Monroe.” He smirks. “Whatever you need.”
“I’m saying the word, Rhodes.”