Chapter Twenty-Three
Monroe
My shower is hot.
Although, after last night, I really should be taking a cold one.
I let the soap wash over my body and run my Week One clinic schedule through my brain, over and over again.
If I can get past the stage fright of skating in front of a group of people again, I can do all the skills I’m going over this week.
I’ve practiced them all, and feel confident that I’m not going to end up on my face. Today, at least.
I turn the water off and wrap myself in a towel, forgetting momentarily that Rhodes was not gone for good, just gone to get coffee.
“Iced Americano, with vanilla and oat milk,” he calls from the kitchen.
I assume he heard the bathroom door open.
My damp feet pad against the hallway. Rhodes has his laptop open.
He’s changed somehow, and he smells delicious, something masculine like cologne or aftershave.
He glances up and smirks, unashamedly raking his gaze down my damp and towel-clad body.
His eyes are dark, slow-moving—remembering. He whistles low.
“I think we still have time for round two, Abrams. Wanna go again before we have to get on the ice?”
“Head out of the gutter, McKnight,” I mutter without conviction, snatching my coffee from his outstretched hand.
“Whatever you say, sweetheart,” he says, eyes returning to his computer. I peek over his shoulder to see what he’s working on. Clinic notes fill the screen. Hockey drills, skating techniques—the sister version to my figure-skating notes.
“Are we starting them out together on the ice?” I ask, needing something else to focus on.
Rhodes nods. “Yeah, I think we’ll get them all in their skates, running some generic drills back and forth until they’re feeling comfortable. Then maybe we split them up and work on our own stuff for a while. Bring them back together at the end.”
I nod in agreement. “Yeah. That sounds good.” I take a sip of my drink, feeling life return to me as the caffeine floods my system. I glance at the stove clock. Six-forty.
Shit. Okay, time to start moving. I head to my room to get dressed, way too aware of Rhodes making himself right at home in my apartment.
Once I’m dressed, I grab my computer, keys and phone, and tug on my shoes. My skate bag is by the door, and Rhodes swings it over his shoulder easily.
“Don’t you have to grab your stuff?” I ask. “You’re going to be late.”
Rhodes just shakes his head. “Last night’s Rhodes was an optimist. I packed my bag already. It’s in the car.”
I gasp and shove his arm. “Rhodes McKnight, what kind of girl do you think I am?”
He holds the passenger door open, and mutters something barely intelligible under his breath that sounds a lot like mine.
I hesitate. Arriving together at the rink will make a statement. Do I care anymore?
“Yeah, all right,” I grumble, sliding into the Land Rover. He gives me a satisfied smirk and shuts the door. Apparently, I do not.
I don’t have time to worry about the implications of this ten-minute ride, because Rhodes cranks up his pre-game playlist and tells me to get in the zone.
When we pull up to the rink, my brain is in go-mode. Rhodes hops out, opens my door for me, and grabs both our bags. I move to take mine, but he hoists it over his shoulder and out of my reach.
How is he not attached to someone already? Hockey captain Rhodes McKnight is perfect boyfriend material. Not my boyfriend material, obviously. But someone’s.
I follow him into the rink and find Elsie, who’s busy setting up name tags and sign-in sheets at the front of the building.
“Seven-oh-three, you two,” she says, not looking up from her task. “I distinctly remember saying seven.”
“You’re absolutely right, Els,” Rhodes says, laying the charm on thick. “Won’t happen again.” He winks at me before grabbing chairs and setting them up for the volunteers. I watch his arm flex as he takes them three at a time, and I shake my head.
We spend the next half-hour in comfortable silence as the three of us putter around, making sure everything is ready for twenty-four hopeful skaters to walk through the door at eight a.m.
“Monroe,” Elsie calls as I’m picking up my bag to put my skates on, and I pause.
She walks up to me and stands there, arms crossed, brows pinched together.
“I know we threw you head-first into the deep end with this. But your dad and I? We knew you weren’t going to drown.
Never doubted it for a minute. I’m glad your life preserver over there,” she tosses a thumb back toward Rhodes, “helped you figure out how to swim.”
“Oh, we’re not—” I start, but Elsie stops me.
“Doesn’t matter. I’m proud of you, kid. Knock ’em dead today,” she says gruffly. She pats me on the shoulder, then walks off, shaking her head.
“You ready to roll, sweetheart?” Rhodes says into my ear, slinging an arm around my shoulders with a grin. I roll my eyes and shrug him off. Neither my head nor my heart really knows what to make of the last few weeks and I can feel myself already putting space between us.
“I’m going to put on my skates,” I say, walking away without making eye contact. “See you on the ice, McKnight.”
Rhodes tracks me as I walk away, and I can feel his gaze hot on the back of my neck.
A flurry of little kid noise reaches the rink as little girls and boys come in from the locker room, skates laced up and ready to go.
Rhodes and I have a pretty even spread of boys and girls between the two of us, and I love to see it.
It used to be pretty divided, girls in figure skating and boys in hockey, but over the last few years we’ve seen a much better mix between the two.
The rink is quiet for exactly ten seconds after I lace up my skates. The moment I step onto the ice, gliding forward with ease, I feel the weight in my chest loosen. The anxiety has gotten a lot better. Muscle memory kicks in.
Rhodes watches me stretch, one foot propped against the boards. His navy-blue eyes track every move I make. He glides over to me, sending a spray of ice in my direction.
“Show-off,” I mutter.
He grins, unbothered. “Don’t be jealous, Monroe. You’ll catch up one day.”
I snort. “Please. You skate around chasing a glorified rubber ball. I jump into the air off my blades.”
He chuckles, feigning offense. “Maybe. But let’s be real, you wouldn’t last five minutes in full pads.”
I tilt my head, considering. “I think I could handle it. I’ve got better edge work than half your team.”
He huffs out a laugh, eyes dropping to where my leg is still stretched against the boards. His gaze lingers a second too long, sweeping over the length of my body before flicking back up.
“Yeah, but my sport requires contact,” he murmurs, his voice smooth, teasing. “And I don’t think you’d do so well handling that.”
I arch a brow, projecting confidence where there is none and ignoring the heat creeping up my neck. “I handled contact just fine last night.”
His grin sharpens. “Okay, hotshot, let’s see how you handle it later tonight.” There is a quiet moment between the two of us then, before the doors swing open and a flurry of kids comes tumbling into the rink, their excited chatter echoing off the walls.
Saved by the children, you could say.
I take a deep breath and square my shoulders as they pour onto the ice.
Some are already confident, pushing forward with enthusiasm.
Others clutch the boards like their life depends on it.
I spot a little girl no older than six, her brown eyes wide as she stares at the ice like it might swallow her whole.
Rhodes crouches down near her, easygoing. “Hey, kiddo. First time on the ice?”
She nods, clutching the boards, knuckles white.
“You wanna know a secret?” he says, dropping his voice like he’s about to tell her something classified.
She nods again.
“The ice isn’t scary if you trust your skates.” He taps the toe of his own. “They’ll hold you up. And if they don’t?” He glances over his shoulder at me before pointing at his own chest. “Coach Rhodes is a pro at picking people up when they fall.”
I roll my eyes. “Rhodes, you’re literally paid to hit people and knock them over.”
“Semantics.” He shrugs. “Come on, kid. Let’s take a step together.”
He guides her forward, patient and steady, his gloved hands bracing her arms. She’s hesitant at first, but when she realizes he’s not going to let her fall, she takes her first tiny glide forward.
I already thought he was sexy, but Rhodes being actually, phenomenally good with little kids? Fuck me.
I turn to the rest of the group, clapping my hands. “All right, guys! Who’s ready to skate?”
A chorus of me! me! me! echoes back at me, and I swallow a laugh.
We start simple, forward glides, getting comfortable on the ice. I demonstrate, pushing off with ease before circling back, and the kids attempt to copy me. Some wobble, some glide, some take a spill immediately, but no one cries. That’s a win.
Rhodes and I split the kids into two groups after warm-ups. He takes the ones interested in hockey to work on stops, turns, and balance drills, while I lead the figure-skating hopefuls through some fundamental edges, ankle control, and two-foot spins.
I scan the rink as I work through the drills. Rhodes is in the far corner with his group, his voice deep but even as he corrects one of the boys who keeps trying to push off too hard and nearly faceplants.
He catches me looking and smirks. Cocky bastard.
I roll my eyes, turning my attention back to my own students. “All right, let’s work on one-foot glides,” I announce. “This one takes balance, but it’s the first step to every jump and spin you’ll ever do.”
A little boy, maybe seven, raises his hand. “Coach Monroe, can you do a spin?”
I hesitate.
Rhodes’ voice drifts over. “Yeah, Coach Monroe. Show ’em what you got.”
I cut him a quick glare before exhaling, nerves still prickling. You’ve done this a thousand times.
I nod and push off, gaining just enough speed before snapping into a tight, controlled spin, my arms tucking in perfectly as I turn. I finish in a solid landing position, the smallest smile tugging at my lips.
The kids erupt in excited cheers. Rhodes grins.
“See?” I say to the kids, forcing my voice to stay steady. “Easy. You’ll get there in no time.”
“Easy, she says,” Rhodes mutters, skating behind me after one of his hockey girls.
One of the boys on his side raises his hand. Rhodes slows to a stop and gestures toward him. “What’s up, Dylan?”
The kid hesitates for half a second before blurting out, “Can I go over to Coach Monroe’s team?”
Rhodes fake-gasps, pressing a hand over his heart like he’s been personally victimized. “Dylan. Buddy. You wound me.”
I let out a small laugh, shaking my head. “Stick it out over there, Dylan. I’m no good at the hockey tricks.”
“Yeah, bud. Give me a chance here,” Rhodes says, tapping Dylan’s helmet lightly. “I swear I know what I’m doing.”
Dylan sighs but nods, pushing off again with a little more confidence.
By the end of the clinic, my cheeks are warm, and I know it has nothing to do with skating.