Chapter 2
Nine and a Half Years Ago
June
Backpack over his shoulder, Chase Merritt whistles as he leaves the gym, his muscles twitching from that last set of squats. It’s June, so he’s had the Western Massachusetts University weight room mostly to himself.
His hockey teammates back in Minnesota would have a good laugh if they could see him pulling open the door of the arena under the Ice Dreams Figure Skating Camp banner.
He doesn’t much care, though. Working here for eight weeks as an assistant coach and camp counselor means free room and board, gym access, ice time, and a paycheck, with every penny heading straight into his depleted bank account. The camp even paid him gas money for the trip out here.
Best side hustle ever.
As he reaches the lobby, the familiar scent of rink ice washes over him—cold air and sharpened blades, with notes of old popcorn and socks. All his best moments have happened in places just like this one.
Before he can reach the rink, though, a woman flags him down. She’s a ponytailed volunteer sitting in front of an array of ID tags on colorful lanyards. And he doesn’t miss the way her eyes widen when he stops at her table.
“Well, hi,” she says, with a skittering gaze that takes in his sweaty T-shirt. “This is, um, a figure skating camp.”
“I know,” he says, holding back a smile. “Last name is Merritt.”
She blinks. “Oh.” After a beat, she looks down at the table and plucks his ID off it. “Sorry. And you’re an assistant coach, too.” She hands him the red lanyard, and the ID inside reads STAFF. “I’ve got your handbook. And what’s your T-shirt size? They run small.”
“Then let’s go with extra large.”
She hands over an orange T-shirt and directs him to where coaches and campers are gathering.
He heads for the open door to the arena, shoving the shirt and the handbook—which is surprisingly thick—into his backpack.
The rules of his eight-week tenure here have already been made clear to him by his college hockey coach, who got him this job.
Coach Walsh’s sister is the woman who runs this camp.
“You’re there to help my sister herd the cats, work out like a beast, and stay on top of your cardio.
The only real rule is not to touch the campers.
They’re high school girls, no matter how hard they throw themselves at you.
And for fuck’s sake, don’t touch my niece, or I’ll cut off your dick with a dull skate blade. ”
“Gross, Coach. Like I’d be that stupid anyway.”
He will, however, make nice with Coach Walsh’s sister. And at some point he’ll figure out which of the girls is the young Miss Walsh, so he can be extra nice to her. He knows where his bagel is buttered.
As he passes through the doors and into the bowl-shaped arena, there’s no mistaking the vibe of the room.
Campers and their parents gather in the bleachers at one end of the rink.
As he strides down the wide concrete risers toward the crowd, the sound of girlish voices rises.
It’s like approaching a hive of bees, all of them buzzing at once, heads bent together in shiny clusters of conversation.
The last time Chase put on figure skates, he was in middle school.
By then, he’d already transferred his interest to hockey.
When he was young, though, he used to accompany his mother to the rink on Saturdays, where she taught figure skating.
Sometimes he helped with the cones and the music.
Sometimes he skated in every group class, back to back.
In between sessions, she’d buy him treats at the snack bar. A day out with Mom was infinitely more fun than staying home at the mercy of his father’s volatile moods. You’re a waste of space was something he heard a lot, usually followed by Get out of my sight.
At the rink, though, everyone loved him. And figure skating is like riding a bike—he hasn’t forgotten how. Sometimes he still throws jumps in his hockey skates before practice, mostly to amuse his teammates and also to impress women.
That’s how he got this job. During the playoffs, Coach Walsh noticed him throwing a toe loop. The man chewed him out for fooling around, then offered him a summer job in the next breath. “Good money, easy work. All the Walshes are hard-asses, though. Consider yourself warned.”
Even in a crowd, it isn’t difficult to pick out the hard-ass in question. She’s at the center of the action, holding a clipboard and wearing a whistle as various campers and parents approach with their questions.
Besides—she looks like the female version of Coach Walsh, and that’s not really a compliment. It’s the square face and the frown lines at her mouth. They could even be twins.
Chase works his way down to her and waits patiently while somebody’s mom has an urgent word. “The EpiPen has to be on her at all times.”
Coach Walsh lifts a jaded eyebrow. “Even on the rink?”
“When she’s skating, it’s on the bench.”
“Certainly. It will be done,” Coach Pat Walsh says, scribbling something on the clipboard. Then it’s Chase’s turn, and he offers his hand. His life might be chaotic, but he knows how to pass himself off as a gentleman. “Nice to meet you, ma’am. I’m Chase Merritt.”
She glances up with cool gray eyes and gives his hand a surprisingly firm pump. “So you’re the hockey player,” she says the way someone else would say So you’re the flesh-eating bacteria.
“Yes, ma’am.” He gives her his most obsequious smile. “Happy to wear a different pair of skates this summer, though.”
She frowns. “Read the rule book. Early is on time, and on time is late. You’re responsible for making sure your campers make it to the early sessions. No girls allowed in entryway F. For any reason. No boys allowed in entryways A through E. And no campers in your car, ever.”
“Got it,” he says, forcing another smile.
“Find your guys over there.” She hooks her thumb toward one end of the bleachers. “Oh, and put the camp T-shirt on—it stays on today and tomorrow. You’re an authority figure.”
“Right. Sure thing.”
But he’s already been dismissed, so he turns around and makes his way through the crowd to the far end of the bleachers, where eight or ten teenage boys have isolated themselves.
Versus, what, a hundred girls? The ratio would be hilarious, except that’s exactly why they’re paying Chase the big bucks.
The camp teaches pairs skating, and there are never enough boys to practice the lifts.
Chase is making double what he could earn anywhere else just to hoist girls in spandex and put them down again.
Best. Scam. Ever. And good for the guns, too. By the end of the summer he’ll be both rich and ripped.
He climbs over the first couple of rows of bleachers and addresses his little cohort.
“Hey, dudes. My name is Chase Merritt. How’s it going?
” Remembering the T-shirt, he unzips his pack and pulls out the orange monstrosity.
Then he strips off his slightly sweaty gym shirt and pulls the new one over his head.
When his face clears the shirt, several teenagers are gaping up at him. “Wait,” says one of the two boys sitting side by side in front of him. The kid’s name tag reads ETHAN KIM. “Are you the new counselor?”
“Seems so.”
“Um, wow,” the other kid says. “Feel free to take off your shirt at any time.”
Ethan elbows him to shut up.
Chase ignores the comment, tugs the fabric into place. “So, dudes, what do I need to know?”
“I’m, uh, Ethan, and this jackass is Joon-ho,” Ethan says. “We’re roommates. Both sixteen, both from Southern California. This is our third year with the program.”
“Nice to meet you,” Chase says. “Now give me the dirt. Who rules this place? Who should I avoid? Where do we get the best pizza? Which rules do they care most about, and which ones don’t matter?”
“They care about all the rules,” Joon-ho says with a snort. “And we’re not allowed to order pizza or leave campus.”
“But you’re probably allowed to leave,” Ethan puts in. “And, like, bring us back a pizza? For a treat sometime?”
Chase shrugs, promising nothing.
“Coach Pat is pretty intense,” Ethan adds.
“You don’t want to get on her bad side. Also, watch out for the bunheads.
” He gestures toward a group of girls seated a short distance away.
“They’re, like, always auditioning for the next Mean Girls movie, if you know what I mean. The worst one is Melanie.”
Bunheads. Chase cracks a smile and glances toward them. Sure enough, they all have identical hairstyles. There’s a blonde who’s already staring at him.
“Ooh, you’re on her radar now,” Ethan says. “Not good.”
“But they’ll be nice to him,” Joon-ho argues. “Besides, things might be a little different this year now that we have Zoe. Might take ’em down a notch.”
“Who’s Zoe?” Chase has to ask.
Ethan gives him a skeptical look. Then he points.
Chase turns all the way around before he spots a lone figure gliding across the otherwise empty ice.
She’s a young woman, wearing workout tights, a faded Western Mass sweatshirt, and earbuds.
She seems to be marking a skating combination, each movement a flick, the mere suggestion of a glide or spin.
Even so, she moves more gracefully than most humans could ever dream to. As if her skates are an extension of her feet, and her arms are more fluid than a normal person’s.
The beehive sound around Chase dims. Or maybe that’s just how it feels.
Suddenly this girl, Zoe, springs off the ice into an axel, as if she has a special agreement with gravity.
The jump is so smoothly rotated that it looks like slo-mo.
She seems to hover in the air before alighting again, only to pop immediately into a second jump.
The hair stands up on his arms.
“Everyone sit down!” Coach Pat calls, clapping her hands together. “Let’s go over some rules and expectations!”
Chase sinks onto the bench without being conscious of doing so. His eyes don’t leave Zoe. Having landed an exquisite combination, she casually skates backward for a half rotation of the rink, her expression inward and contemplative. As if she’s the only one in the arena.
“Shiiiit,” Ethan hisses behind him. “I should just quit, right? I’ll never skate like that.”
Zoe circles back around, and when the next jump comes, it startles him all over again.
It’s the effortlessness of it. Well, not truly.
He’s an athlete, too, and he knows that anything impressive requires a shit ton of effort.
But damn. She has that X factor—that something special that separates the talented from the otherworldly.
He isn’t the only one who’s noticed. Every eye is on Zoe, who can’t even be bothered to notice. She’s at the far side now, facing the other way. Inside her own head.
But up front, Coach Pat is still talking, and nobody is listening. When their fearless leader suddenly realizes why, she breaks off mid-sentence, grabs her whistle, and gives it a shrill blast in the direction of the ice.
Zoe rotates smoothly, as if on wheels, and her eyes finally take in the coach and the crowd. But she doesn’t look alarmed. She simply nudges her earbuds out of her ears until they dangle on their little white cords and skates idly toward the nearest exit door, the one closest to Chase’s crew.
With a fierce frown, Coach Pat turns back to the crowd and resumes. “As I was saying, curfew is nine o’clock, lights out at ten. We’re getting an early start tomorrow morning…”
As if on autopilot, Zoe steps over the first row of the bleachers and then sits down on the next one, in a spot that just happens to be five feet away from Chase. There’s a careworn Western Mass duffel bag stashed there, and she pulls a pair of skate guards from the outer pocket.
“Breakfast ends promptly at eight, and the days’ first sessions begin at eight fifteen. Always double-check the whiteboard for your assigned activity…”
He’s too busy sneaking glances at Zoe to listen. Up close, he’s noticing something else about her—that she’s fucking gorgeous. Olive skin and thick dark hair that’s been raked into a heavy braid.
When she sheds her sweatshirt to reveal a form-fitting exercise top, smooth olive shoulders, and strong biceps, he forgets to breathe. And he almost fails to notice her red lanyard, the same kind as his.
Not a camper, then. An unfamiliar sensation warms his chest. Like hope, but fizzier.
Unfortunately, that’s when she catches him staring. She turns suddenly, flicking a frown in his direction. But then she does a double take. As if one look wasn’t quite enough. Their gazes meet this time, and Chase forgets to breathe while they take each other in.
She looks away first. “Who are you?” she hisses.
He grins. “Chase. Counselor in the boys’ entryway. And the forklift for the pairs classes.” He pantomimes lifting something in the air and then lowering it again, twice in succession.
She doesn’t smile, but amusement passes through her big brown eyes, and the corners of her mouth twitch.
It feels like winning the lottery. “How long does this meeting last, you think? I’m about two thousand calories and two cups of coffee behind. And she seems like a talker. And a hard-ass.” He nods toward Coach Pat.
Zoe glances toward the front, where Coach Pat is still listing details, and the joy seems to leak right out of her.
“She’s the worst,” she whispers. “Eight weeks of this, too. I’ll lose my mind.”
“But that’s what tequila is for,” he says. “Did you notice if the dorm had a rooftop?”
She frowns at him as if he’d asked a question in Swahili. “No?”
“Then I guess it’s up to me to check, isn’t it?”
Her eyes widen. Then she gives him the barest hint of a smile before turning away.
He’ll take it.