Love and Other Penalties (Meet-Cute Match-Ups #4)

Chapter 1

one

. . .

The Briarwood Ice Arena welcomes me like an old friend at five-thirty in the morning, smooth and pristine under the arena’s fluorescent lights. I breathe in the familiar scent of the cold—it totally has a smell—from the ice and the leather from my skates.

I lace up Hope and Glory, and if my ankle can keep up with my ambition, today will be a very good day. I breathe out, truly able to feel a tiny bit of relief, because my mother won’t be here this morning.

She attends my afternoon sessions, though, and those are filled with tight ponytails, turned-down lips, and tension. Both hers and mine.

This morning, I wear my dark hair in a loose braid that I actually put in last night after I showered. That way, it’ll be curly when I show up at my dad’s cupcakery for my shift.

I stifle a yawn at my dawn until dusk schedule and remind myself that I don’t have anything else to do, except feed a pet fish each day. Sometimes the loneliness that seems to sweep across Wisconsin gets way down deep in my lungs, and I can’t help wondering what I’m doing with my life.

What I’ve done—which feels like a big fat goose egg most days. Nothing. Nada.

After all, I have no Olympic gold medal, no boyfriend, and if my father didn’t own a popular cupcakery in town, I’d have no job.

When my thoughts spiral like this, the best place for me is on the ice, and I push myself to a stand and breathe in and out one more time.

“You don’t have time for a boyfriend, Ivy,” I tell myself as I swing my arms up and down and around to stretch out my shoulders.

I pull one arm across my body and hold it there. “You love working at the cakery and don’t want another job.”

The last void in my life is harder to appease with a stretch and a self-affirmation. My mother has three gold medals from her time as a figure skater in the Olympics, and I grew up with the taste of glory in my mouth.

I do want a gold medal, and I’ve been working for more than half my life to get one. I’m close to qualifying for the next Olympic games, and I have one last major qualifier coming up.

So as I rotate my wrists and then work out the kink in my neck, I remind myself that I’ve scheduled ice-time at five-thirty in the morning every day until I need to be on the plane to Nagoya.

I finish stretching my upper body, and I leave the alcove where I’ve been warming up in favor of the ice. For the next two hours, this is all mine.

I glide onto the rink, a smile moving onto my face as my muscles start to work, my mind already cataloging the elements I need to nail in my routine. Triple lutz, triple toe loop, that tricky footwork-step-sequence that should flow like water.

The December qualifier is three weeks away. Three weeks to prove I deserve a spot on Team USA. Three weeks to silence every doubt, every whisper, every disappointed look from my mother after Nationals two years ago.

The fall that changed everything.

I shake off the memory and push into a crossover, building speed around the perimeter. The arena is tomb-quiet except for the whisper of my blades carving fresh lines in the ice. Perfect. I need this peace, this focus, this—

Swish-swish, swish-swish.

Pure adrenaline rushes through me, sending my perfect skating into a sputter as I look over my shoulder for the additional source of sound.

The sound of someone else’s skates on my pristine ice.

He breathes in time with his hockey skates, and a moment later, a blur of royal blue, black, and gold rockets past me, so close the wind from his speed ruffles the end of my braid.

I slam on my toe pick, spraying ice shavings as I screech to a halt. The hockey ruffian doesn’t even look at me, but he had to have seen me. I may be petite, but I’m not invisible.

The man in full hockey gear, stick in hand, puck dancing at the end of his blade like it’s attached by invisible string, executes a sharp turn that would make my mom weep with envy and glides to a stop twenty feet away.

Dark eyes meet mine through the cage of his helmet, and something electric shoots straight through my chest.

He pushes his helmet back, and my word. Does he execute that move in front of a mirror to make sure his hair is so adorably messy? He’s frowning, and he obviously doesn’t know how it only adds to his allure.

“You’re on my ice,” he says, his voice unmistakably irritated.

“Your ice?” I plant my hands on my hips, which is harder than it looks when you’re balancing on quarter-inch blades. “I have this rink reserved from five-thirty to seven-thirty every day this week. Check the schedule.”

He tilts his head, and I catch a glimpse of sharp jawline beneath the helmet. “I’ve had this slot for three months. Every Monday, every Tuesday and every Thursday.”

That can’t be true. I didn’t see anyone else on the schedule, which is digital and not that hard to figure out. “Well, your name wasn’t on the chart.” I cross my arms for emphasis. “Also, today is Wednesday.”

That stops him. He glances toward the arena’s digital clock display, and I see the exact moment he realizes I’m right. His shoulders drop slightly, but he doesn’t apologize.

“So it’s just a simple scheduling error.” He skates closer to me. Too close. Close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze, and I’m suddenly very aware that I’m five-foot-one in a sport that celebrates tiny, and he’s probably six-foot-something in a sport that celebrates giants.

“Obviously.” I gesture toward the empty rink. “So if you could just—”

“No.” The word is flat, final. “I have to practice. You can work around me.”

The audacity. The absolute, breathtaking audacity of this man.

“Work around you?” My voice climbs a half-octave in only three words, and that’s a real skill. Too bad I can’t get a gold medal in that.

“I need clean ice for my routine. I can’t dodge hockey pucks while I’m attempting a triple lutz.”

“Then don’t attempt a triple…whatever you just said.” He cocks his eyebrows, as if daring me to offer another suggestion. “Problem solved.”

I stare at him. Actually stare, mouth slightly open, because I cannot believe this conversation is happening. “Don’t attempt—do you have any idea who I am?”

“Someone who’s about to be late for whatever she does when she’s not figure skating?” A tiny smile touches his mouth before he turns away, then flips around and skates backward while stick-handling the puck. What—a—show—off.

The worst part? He’s good. Really good. His edges are clean, his balance perfect even while moving backward and controlling the puck. He flows across the ice like he was born on it, all controlled power and athletic grace.

My stupid heartbeat thinks we should go after him and try to get his number. I dig my toe pick in harder as a physical reminder that I don’t have time for a boyfriend—and especially not one as dismissive as this guy.

“Fine,” I call after him. “But I’m not changing my routine. If you get in my way, that’s on you.”

He doesn’t respond, just continues his backward skating toward the far end of the rink. When he finally turns around, I catch his name on his jersey—Travers—and make a mental note to look up everything the Internet has to spill about him.

Then, if he tries to steal my practice time on Tuesdays and Thursdays, I’ll have something in my arsenal to drive him back to bed. At the very least, my pulse won’t have a reason to be booming quite so dramatically through my body.

It’s such a traitor sometimes.

I skate to center ice. If this…this…tomcat thinks he can intimidate me into leaving, he’s about to learn otherwise.

I’ve been skating since I could walk. I’ve trained through injuries, heartbreak, and my mother’s particular brand of loving brutality.

I’m not about to be scared off by one grumpy guy with good edges and perfect hair.

I settle into my starting position, arms raised, and wait for my music to begin in my head. The opening notes of my short program fill my imagination, and I push off into my first element.

The routine flows through me with muscle memory, every bar of music drowning out Tomcat’s mangling of the ice down on the other end.

Spiral sequence, ice dancing, build up to my first jump. I’m dimly aware of Tomcat doing shooting drills at the other end of the rink, the sharp crack of his stick against the puck punctuating my internal soundtrack in the most irritating way.

But I grew up with a woman I’ve had to tune out since age six, so I’m able to lose myself in the familiar rhythm of my blades against ice, the perfect stretch of my quads, the controlled fall and recovery that is figure skating.

Until I glance up mid-crossover and catch him watching me.

Tomcat’s stopped his drill entirely and now stands motionless about halfway down his side of the rink.

Even through his helmet, the intensity of his stare reaches me.

Something hot and uncomfortable twists in my stomach.

I’m used to being watched—skating is a performance sport broadcasted world-wide, after all—but this feels… different.

I fumble my next transition, catching my blade on a rough patch of ice, and have to windmill one arm one time to keep from falling. Heat floods my cheeks, and my mother’s voice screams through my head.

Ivy Dane does not stumble during simple footwork. Ivy Dane is precise, controlled, perfect.

Pull yourself together, Ivy!

Except apparently not when tall, dark hockey tomcats are watching her like she’s the most interesting thing they’ve ever seen.

I risk another glance toward him, expecting smugness or amusement at my mistake. Instead, his posture has shifted. He’s leaning forward slightly on his stick, and there’s something almost hungry in the way he’s tracking my movement across the ice.

The realization hits me like a body check: he’s not just watching my skating. He’s watching me.

Game on.

I push into my step sequence with renewed focus, letting the music in my head guide me through the intricate footwork. Every movement is deliberate, controlled, designed to showcase the precision and artistry that separates figure skating from every other sport on ice.

My blades barely touch the ice as I fly across it, every tippy-toe step and slide exactly right. I add an extra spin to my turn sequence, extend my spiral a beat longer than necessary, and finish with a combination jump that lands so cleanly it barely makes a sound.

I spread my arms to the side the way I always do, almost in a bow as I come out of the jump. I meet Tomcat’s eyes, noting he hasn’t moved an inch. If anything, he’s forgotten how to blink.

I return to a normal stance, pure satisfaction flooding me as I skate toward him, slowly, letting my hips sway just slightly more than necessary.

His eyes track every movement, and I feel a thrill of feminine power that has nothing to do with athletics and everything to do with the way his grip tightens on his hockey stick.

“Do I pass?” I ask when I’m close enough that he can hear me without me having to shout.

He blinks, like he’s just realized I’m not a mirage. “Your technique is…” He pauses, those dark eyes so mysterious as he thinks. “Clean.”

“Just clean?” I raise an eyebrow. “I was going for magnificent, but I’ll take clean.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. Almost a smile. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Don’t worry,” I say. “Unlike hockey players, figure skaters never think they’re good enough.”

I execute a perfect backward crossover around him, close enough that I can see his eyes widen slightly behind his helmet. Close enough to confirm that yes, he definitely smells like cedar and danger and something that makes me want to lean closer instead of skating away.

“You’re in my space,” he says, but there’s no real complaint in his voice.

“Your space?” I complete the circle and come to a stop directly in front of him. “Show me the schedule.”

He smiles and shakes his head as he drops his chin. Mm, he definitely practices that move for the ladies.

“All right, Tomcat,” I say, and to my semi-horror I realize I’m flirting with him. “I have to—”

“Tomcat?” His smile vanishes.

“You’re kind of a scoundrel,” I say. “And you play for team with a feline name.”

“You’re using my ice. Can I call you Kitty Cat?”

I fold my arms. “Absolutely not.”

He grins again, this time the action slow and sultry and oh-so-dangerous. “I know: Kitten.”

“No—”

“Yeah, I like that.” He lifts his stick and indicates the other end of the rink. “Go on, Kitten. I’ll let you get back to your spins.”

Pure fire boils in my blood, and I scoff. “This can’t be a regular thing,” I say as I push off and glide away from him. “The schedule is the law.”

Finn Travers. Right wing for the Briarwood Bobcats. I squint at the screen of my phone while I wait for the frosting to whip to perfection.

He’s a starter and has been for a few years now.

“Fan favorite,” I mutter, my eyes scanning for more of a scandal, something I can use against him.

I haven’t been able to find anything yet.

He’s the kind of player who makes highlight reels, wins MVP awards, and has a fan following that likely includes half the women in North America.

Including me, I think.

“Great.” I shove my phone in my back pocket and step over to the commercial mixer whipping up the buttercream.

Now my brain is joining the traitorous team my heart seems to be building.