Chapter 8 #2
“I don’t know, but I hope I’m next.” Her friends giggle on their way out of the arena.
Okay, plenty of people can get on the ice and do a few spins, but he’s not just spinning. He’s done a Lutz and an axel. That too, effortlessly. It makes me kind of sick.
Dylan Donovan is a phenomenal skater.
I’d never say that out loud. There’s no way I’d inflate his ego. He’s focused as he prepares to jump into another spin. The immediate response from my body feels dangerous and entirely unwelcome. My ears thrum with a pulse that sends my blood low in my body. Nope.
“Your footwork is sloppy,” I taunt from the sidelines when I can’t swallow the bitterness on my tongue. “And that triple looked a lot like a double.”
Okay, now I sound jealous.
You are.
When he turns, I shuffle onto the ice and slip on the gloves I finished knitting last night.
“You’re still here.” He blinks at me, staring awfully hard at my reddened eyes.
“You really think I’d give up free ice so you could taint it with your show pony tricks?” They were not just any tricks. I know that. He knows that I know that.
When he glides forward, I keep my focus on picking a song on my phone. But then Dylan comes so close, he’s towering over me. He unzips his jacket, and the slow metallic rasp splits the silence.
“Jealousy looks good on you, Sierra. But maybe you should channel some of that anger into landing a jump.” He leans in. “Or, you know, I could give you a private lesson.”
He’s still too close when he pulls off his jacket and tosses it on the boards. Hartford Whalers is written on his too-short threadbare T-shirt that clings to his chest and reveals the smooth V-shaped muscle disappearing into his track pants.
I swallow. “Don’t think I’ll benefit from lessons from a guy who still wears his high school hockey team merch. Is that where you learned to skate like that?”
He looks at me like I’ve lost a few brain cells. “Well, there’s this sport called hockey that I’ve been playing since I was a kid.”
“You were figure skating. Hockey doesn’t teach that.”
“Impressed?”
“Indifferent.”
“Jealous,” he decides with a satisfied grin.
There’s only so much patience in the world, and I don’t possess it. I glide past him, trying not to focus on the scratch of a skate that follows me.
“I competed in pairs with my sister for a few years,” he reveals. “But then I switched back to hockey.”
That makes me stop. “Why?”
“It got me more girls.” He watches each of my reactions like he’s studying them. “What about you? Or do you just say you’re a skater so you can creep inside the arena and watch people from behind the bleachers?”
I realize then this might be the first real conversation we’ve had. Even if he just made me out to be a stalker. “My parents were professional figure skaters. I was practically born to do it.”
“Did you want to?”
The question feels oddly invasive, and I grapple with the fact that no one has ever asked me that.
I don’t think anyone has ever cared to know if I wanted to dedicate my life to the ice.
There’s a wave of something that makes my stomach tighten, but I nod, because I’ve yearned to skate.
It’s only now that I question whether I can.
I glide away from him to warm up with some walleys. But it’s hard to focus when he’s flaunting his abilities like a fucking peacock.
It must be the bitter competitor in me, because watching him easily do moves I once did pushes me harder. By some miracle, I land my first double and yelp in surprise. Holy shit.
In skating it’s good to end on a high note.
But I always push myself until I can’t. “Back to Black” by Amy Winehouse plays from my phone.
I start the routine I did for a Fire & Ice invitational back when I was in singles.
“‘Dark, moody, and art on ice’” they called it, and even now I transform into someone else. A sloppier version, but someone else.
I push into a spin at center ice, dropping into a sit spin as the burn from three back-to-back—not-too-bad—axels lingers in my legs. My breath is ragged, but there’s a glow in my chest. Pride, maybe. I press my lips together, refusing to let it out. That wasn’t impressive.
“Impressive,” Dylan calls then lands another Lutz. Damn show-off.
“You should probably work on that. Still sloppy,” I needle.
When he smiles this time, it’s cocky as hell. “Think you can keep up with me, firefly?”
I raise a brow at the nickname. “Are you trying to goad me into skating with you? I’m not that easy.”
“Oh, I know, but I’ve always had a thing for a challenge.”
“I’m not giving in to whatever kink you’re trying to satisfy.”
He smirks, leaning in slightly. “You in those tights is doing a lot for me already.”
When I push away, he follows me. We’re face-to-face as he glides forward while I glide backward. “Does this puppy dog thing work for you, or are you trying something new?”
“Trying something new,” he replies.
“Donovan!” someone barks before I can get another word out.
I glance to the sidelines, where our sports director wears an angry expression. Dylan curses under his breath.
“No after-hours skating, Ms. Romanova. But I’ll let it slide this time since it’s a new rule,” he warns.
“Sorry,” I call sheepishly, gliding off the ice while Dylan reluctantly heads to Alan Reed.
I can’t hear what they’re saying, but the tension is high. They argue, and then Dylan’s expression goes entirely blank before he steps through the gate. With a satisfied look, our sports director follows him out.
For the first time, I actually feel bad for him. I know what it’s like not to be on the ice. It’s pure torture when you’ve grown up loving it, and having your body stop you, or being told you can’t, is even worse.