28. Bonus- A Christmas Surprise! #3
"Better than last week." Dylan shrugs; his black thermal-lined pants come into my eye line, but I still don't want to look into his cocky green eyes. Dylan has a way of hurting me more than I can hurt myself, and that's saying something.
"Oh yeah, or are you just saying that?"
Dylan sighs, and I can tell his fingertips are gripping the bridge of his nose by the annoyed sound. "You asked me to be nicer."
"Nicer, not lie." I bark, my head jerks up, and I immediately regret it.
Dylan used to be the most gorgeous man I had ever seen in my life.
His green eyes have flecks of gold in them.
His dark brown hair reminded me of the silkiness of milk chocolate, and his smile used to melt me to the core.
Also, it's just not fair how he is lean and toned in all the right ways—that gets my panties wet—or used to, at least.
"Well, how about this, Golden Girl?" I cringe at the nickname from my youth, when everyone thought I was destined to be a gold medalist and my signature blonde, shoulder-length curly hair. "You're not even bronze level anymore."
My eyes widen, and my skin sets a blaze. I press my open palms into the biting ice of the rink, trying to cool down before I say anything I would regret, to the matching accessory of my career. "You wouldn't have hoped to be anywhere near the Olympic Circle if it wasn't for me."
Whoops, so much for not saying anything mean, but fuck him.
I was the star. I was the one people came to see, and if it weren’t for him and our old coach pushing me to do the death spiral, then I wouldn't be here.
I fling my hand up at Dylan, and he locks his big hand around my freezing fingers, hissing at the sensation.
A spark of satisfaction shoots through me at his twisted gaze, but I bite back the impending smile.
Dylan's eyes sharpen onto mine, and his grip tightens to the point I can feel my knuckles crack under his touch.
"Josie, I am the only reason anyone lets your stupid ass near the ice anymore; remember that."
"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't know you had a lineup of women ready to be dropped onto the ice." I snarl, yanking my arm, but Dylan pulls me in closer against his chest.
His hand snakes around my waist, and from the outside looking in, we look like we're in love, doing the tango, and I am just so lost in his eyes.
There was a time this was true, and we would be seconds from running into the locker room and warming each other up, but now I wouldn't let him touch me with a ten-foot pole or the five inches in his pants.
"Hockey tryouts are in ten. I need all skates off the ice." A gruff voice bellows from the stands.
Dylan doesn't look up. Instead, he sweeps his eyes to my lips and then back to my eyes as he speaks. "You got it, Coach Chris."
My nostrils twitch, and Dylan smirks at the slight rise he gets out of me before pushing me away, so I have to dig in my skates to stop.
My bun loosens, and more strands fall in my face as I watch Dylan skate away and off the ice.
My eyes flicker up to the scoreboard, the time beaming bright red at the top.
"Hockey tryouts are not for another two hours," I call up, looking at Coach Christopher Jackson, the best living player in NHL history and the new coach of the Northbrook Tigers, a team who made it to finals last year and bombed so hard the world had bet their ranking was a mistake.
If Northbrook was going to play that badly, then no one should have let them in the darn arena; it was a disgrace.
It was also the only thing that eclipsed the news of my head splitting and what everyone thinks is a career-ending injury.
Did I mention that Coach Jackson is also the only person in the world who can make my breath hitch and my body quake just by saying my name?
"He was in your face again." Coach says, leaning back in his bleacher seat right next to the left side of the arena. His long limbs stretch over three rows of benches as he watches me.
I turn to practice a trick I learned at six, a scratch spin.
It's simple: start by grinding backward on an outside edge, then shift to a spinning position by pulling your free leg and arms inward to increase rotation speed while balancing on the ball of your skating foot.
Easy, so when I have to hit the glass to brace myself from falling, I scream. "Shit!"
"Aye, watch your mouth, princess." Coach corrects, leaning forward in the stands.
He wears a gray thermal long-sleeve shirt, Timberland boots, and baby blue jeans.
His thick black hair is smoothed back into a slick style, his beard is professionally trimmed, and he looks like the Greek sculptor Phidias sculpted every muscle on his body.
If I didn't already know who he was, I'd think he was just a really hot senior and totally would give him my number.
"I'm not a princess," I growl, gliding along the rink’s wall.
"You just threw a tantrum like a spoiled little girl, so princess ." He quips; the sound of amusement rolls over his words, and it takes everything out of me not to growl again.
"I'm frustrated. I can't seem to..." Right in front of him, I pause with only the glass separating our gazes.
He has the most amazing deep blue eyes I have ever seen.
They look like a stormy ocean, and my core clinches at the thought of me caught in his fury or passion.
I bet his opponents on the ice drop to their knees in mercy under his gaze.
"What?" His eyes narrow, and the storm eases through the eclipse of his black eyelashes. He sounds mad, but I can tell by the twitch in the corner of his lip that he is teasing me. "Get tight enough?"
"No, I'm not trying to do the Biellmann spin. I’m doing a scratch turn.
" I murmured. I haven't been able to be on the ice since the accident last winter, about three weeks after the Winter Showcase, where I first met Coach Jackson.
The accident where Dylan dropped me and I crashed into the ice, my head cracked out, twelve stitches, a concussion.
I was in my bed back in Minnesota with my mother for six months.
She'd kill me if she knew I was back on the ice.
"You're scared of the ice,now?" He shrugs.
"I have never been scared of the ice."
"Okay." He nods, one of his plush pink lips poking out. "So go do your scratch turn."
I roll my eyes. "Oh fuck off."
"Excuse me?" The stern rasp in his voice heightens as he leans so close to the glass he is almost hanging off the seat.
"You just saw me fail, and you're demanding more of me?"
"If you're not afraid of the ice, do it again." He challenges.
I burn so hot my ears feel like they're on fire. Scoffing, I turn on my heels to skate to the other side of the rink.
"Don't skate away from me!" He growls, the creak of metal from the benches ringing through the arena.
"You're not my coach!" I bark back, my skates slicing against the ice, creating an off-beat rhythm from my huffing as I make a b-line to the lockers.
Who the hell does Coach Jackson think he is? I am not on his team of dumb hockey jocks knocking into each other on the ice. I am an Olympic-bound athlete. He's just a washed-up NHL player in fucking Maine, a coach for a D2 school, might I add, not even in the top twenty.
My anger burns away any bite of the cold from my falls. My skates clink against the concrete as I wind down to the locker rooms. My mind is still running wild.
"Coach is wrong, Josie," I whisper, my hands running over the raised scars along my forearms. "You were born to be on the ice. You aren't scared."
I yank at my laces, feeling the rough leather bite into my fingers as I wrestle with the skates. My hands are trembling, and my fingers are numb from the cold and fight. My muscles taunt with failure, another terrible practice where I feel further away from myself.
The skates won’t come off fast enough, making it worse and forcing something resentful to boil inside me. I yank harder, finally wrenching one of them free, and I can’t hold it in anymore. I hurl them across the room, the dull clatter of them hitting the lockers echoing in the space.
There is something satisfying about watching the skates clatter to the ground as if they mean nothing. I slam my other foot to the ground, yanking the second one free, and my breath comes in ragged, angry bursts.
My feet throb as they meet the cold air, raw and stinging, but it’s nothing compared to the fire raging in my chest. The thick and suffocating silence presses down on me as if the whole room is mocking me, reminding me of everything that slipped away.
Alone in the cold, sterile locker room, the skates lay abandoned—useless—just like me. A slow clap echoes through the space, startling me. I spin around, my eyes landing on Coach Christopher Jackson, staring at me with a bored expression.
"You got it out of your system?"
I painfully pull my bottom lip into my mouth. My nostrils flare, and my knuckles curl into numbing a ball of anger. I step forward, eyes narrowed in on his glowing golden eyes. "Didn't I tell you to fuck off?"
He scoffs, rolling his neck on a deep breath. "I heard you; I just didn't think you would say it to my face."
"Why not?" I roll my eyes, placing both hands on my hips, a nasty smile on my face. "Because you're the big bad NHL veteran coach?"
"No, because I am fifteen years your senior."
"Is that supposed to mean something?"
"It means you should respect me." Coach Jackson growls.
The low rumble rolls over my skin like the bite of the ice. I take in a shaky breath, closing my eyes in a slow blink. My eyes lock on his, and the roll of his jaw makes my core clench.
"Respect is earned." I snarl. "You don't know anything about figure skating. You know nothing about me, saying that I am afraid of the ice...do you know how wild that is?"
"I know what I saw." He sighs, scrunching up the sleeves of his gray thermal shirt, showcasing a mirage of colorful ink encased in thick black lines.
There is nothing hotter than a man covered in tattoos with muscles that look like they could crush you into a million pieces.
I yank my ponytail out of my head, suddenly feeling suffocated.
I need to get out of these wet clothes and away from Coach Jackson's intense dark gaze.
I need to breathe somewhere; I can't see my breath with every exhale.
I need to be warm for the first time in my life.
I need the sun but can't move; instead, I fist my wavy blonde stands and huff.
“You are afraid of the ice.” Coach stretches his neck and arms, straining the veins in his forearms as he approaches me.
I shake my head, taking a step back with each of his steps forward because fuck this!
He tackles people and runs after a puck all day.
I am flinging my body into the air, hoping that asshole Dylan saves me from cracking my skull open again or that I extend my leg to the right more and catch myself before I fall.
"My life is on the line every time I skate," I whisper.
Coach Jackson stops just inches away, his eyes locked on mine.
The air between us grows dense, and I can practically feel the heat radiating from him.
I want to be closer, to run my hand along his skin and find where the core of his warmth is.
I want his sun to be mine. I avoid his eyes, looking at my bare feet.
"You think hockey is just a game of chasing pucks? Whenever I stepped onto the ice every shift, someone could slam me into the boards hard enough to break bones. Or worse." His voice lowers to a ticklish whisper, crawling across my skin.
"That’s different," I snap back, my voice rising in frustration. "You're wearing layers of padding, and you’re in control. I’m out there in practically nothing, with blades strapped to my feet, hurling myself through the air?—"
"Don’t act like you’ve got it worse because you're spinning in sequins while we get bruises and bloodied."
My breath hitches, my mind racing, the frustration boiling over. "I’m not saying you don’t get hurt, but?—"
"But what? Our risks aren't valid because we wear helmets?" His jaw tightens, his stormy blue eyes blazing. "You want to talk about danger? I’ve seen guys go down and not get back up. I’ve been hit so hard I didn’t know where I was. And guess what? I still get back on the ice."
His voice rings through the locker room, and my head tucks into my chest. I feel like I want to scream. I feel like I am in so much trouble that he has no excuse but to punish me. Punish me? Have I lost my freaking mind?
"You don't look like you want to be on that ice, “ he whispers, his palm flat against the wall above me. His body encases me in a warm cocoon, and his smokey firewood scent invades my nostrils.
I freeze, watching the rise and fall of his chest, holding my breath like it is the only thing that will keep me alive. The ice is my home. The ice is everything to me. I can't be afraid of the one thing that makes me, right?
"Let's say you're right, Coach." I look up at him through my eyelashes, slowly licking my dry lips and watching as his eyes follow the lines of my tongue. "What do I do now?"
"You let me coach you."
I lean back against the wall and click it to the right. "And what makes you qualified?"
His eyes darken, and I gulp, fidgeting when he spreads his lips into a Cheshire smile. “I can make you fear me more than the ice."