Chapter 17
Present Day
Steve Sailor doesn’t mess around. Within hours, he’s invited a string of journalists to sit in on a coaching session for the following Tuesday—merely four days after our war room meeting. Meanwhile, I keep replaying my curbside conversation with Chase in my mind and cringing.
I was desperate, and somehow I made it about me. And now I have a vulnerability hangover.
What must he be thinking?
I’m still wondering on Tuesday morning as I stand in the staff bathroom while I hastily apply lipstick. For the photographs, I tell myself. Not because I care how I look in front of Chase.
The door flies open and Darcy bops in. “Ooh! Makeup. Nice color.”
“Is it too much?”
“No way! You look smashing.”
I glance down at my matching red-and-blue outfit. “Nobody looks smashing in Legends workout gear.”
“You absolutely do,” she argues. “And with your hair blown smooth? You look like Sporty Barbie. The PR guy is going to pee himself with excitement over these photographs.”
“He’d better,” I grumble.
“You’re just nervous,” Darcy says gently. “But this will be over in an hour.”
“That’s the problem. I have one hour to make myself look competent, make Chase look friendly, and also fix his skating. I did this to myself.”
She smiles. “Sailor is ready for you. And he wanted me to give you this.”
It’s a cute little silver whistle on a Legends lanyard. “I’m not using that. Whistles are for dogs.”
“Just wear it, Sporty Barbie. It will make his shallow little heart happy.”
Having no choice, I drop it over my head.
“Now get out there already,” she says. “Chase already greeted the journalists.”
“Okay,” I say with one last glance in the mirror. The only thing more stressful than a coaching session with Chase is a coaching session with Chase plus ten spectators.
Wait, make that twenty. As I glide out onto the ice, I’m startled by the crowd of people lining one wall of the big practice rink, most of them men. The photographers’ cameras have cartoonishly long lenses on them, too, as if they’re here to photograph the Kentucky Derby.
Good grief. A coaching session with me is not interesting enough for all that.
“Zoe!” Steve Sailor waves me over to the side. “Come introduce yourself. They already got to shake Chase’s hand.”
I look over my shoulder and see Chase, also dressed in Legends workout gear, crisscrossing smoothly between the face-off circles. Meanwhile, he’s got his stick in his ungloved hand, and he’s dribbling the puck in quick strokes, like a magician.
It’s flashy. He’s playing to the crowd.
“Friends,” Sailor says when I arrive at his side. “This is Zoe, the newest member of the Legends family.”
I give a camera-ready wave. “Morning! Is this anyone’s first time at a Legends practice?”
Only one hand goes up, and it’s a photographer’s.
“I guess that doesn’t surprise me,” I say, smiling so hard that my face hurts. “I’m the new kid for everything this week.”
There’s a gentle chuckle. Several of the journalists are holding pocket recording devices, so I’d better not say anything stupid.
“My role here is to work on fundamentals—crucial skills like edge control, balance, and efficient body movement. Skating is my lifelong passion, and I’ve worked closely with several NHL veterans to understand the nuances of hockey biomechanics.
I’m also interested in longevity. Nothing a player does with his body should cause damage.
I want our players to have healthy joints and ligaments for as long as they need them.
” I remember to breathe. “And… that’s the job! I hope you enjoy our session today.”
“Thank you, Coach Carson,” Sailor says with a toothy smile. “Do your worst with our guy!”
There’s a polite chuckle as I turn and head toward Chase at center ice. My heart rate kicks up as he slows to a stop for me.
I skate right up to him. And now we’re face-to-face for the first time since I vomited all my feelings onto the sidewalk outside. “Hi,” I say, my plastic smile still in place.
“Hi,” he says with a serious frown.
“We should shake hands now, because that makes me look official, and it makes you look like a guy who doesn’t shove people in bars.”
He doesn’t smile, but amusement flickers through his eyes. Then he offers me his hand.
But not palm down. That’s the irrational thought that pops into my head as I slide my hand into his. His skin is warmer than I’m expecting, and now I have goose bumps.
Breathe, Zoe. I drop his hand. “Okay, I know this is awkward. We have to put on a show, but I also need to see you skate. Let’s start with a simple drill. I’ve been watching tape, and I have some thoughts about your stride.”
“Everybody has thoughts,” he mutters under his breath. “Let’s get this over with.”
I’ve chosen a warm-up with lots of visual appeal. I set up the cones so that we’ll be zigzagging toward the journalists.
It takes me only a minute to show Chase the edging sequence that I want. “And I’ll skate with you. Take it nice and easy. We’re not racing. This drill is more of a photo op.”
With his face turned away from the journalists, he rolls his eyes. “Of course it is.”
“Hey!” I argue as we glide toward the far end of the cones. “We’re defending your honor here. So make like a figure skater and smile, damn it. On three.”
I count us off and then we start skating the course—crisscrossing around the cones and zipping past each other every three strokes.
Chase does this effortlessly. The weird thing is how we fall into a rhythm again, carving perfectly synchronized turns. As if no time has passed. I can sense his movement without looking.
It’s just my training, I remind myself. I could probably sync up with a drunk polar bear at this point.
The sound of camera shutters ricochets around the rink as we fly toward the pack of journalists. When we reach the last cone, we reverse the exercise—not by turning around, but by zigzagging backward in the same pattern. It looks flashy, and the photographers obviously think so.
But would it kill Chase to be a little more grateful? I’m making him look good here. As we stop skating, he looks almost bored. “Was that photogenic enough?”
“It will do,” I say with a theatrical smile. “Now before I ask for sprints, is there anything specific you wanted to work on?” It’s only fair to ask.
His attractive mouth pinches, and I brace myself to hear him say that this is stupid and that he shouldn’t have to be here right now. “What did you teach Tremaine? He came back to the locker room saying you’re a genius.”
Oh. “We talked about how to get, like, a ten percent faster start out of the corners.”
Chase gestures toward the nearest corner. “Then teach me that. Because I’d sell a kidney to get ten percent faster at anything right now.”
The honesty startles me. “Right this way, then.”
We move a little closer to the journalists so they can hear what I’m saying. And while they watch us like we’re monkeys at the zoo, I explain my theory of rapid acceleration.
To my surprise, Chase listens closely to every word I say, then practices each new motion with as much dedication as his captain had.
Somehow the minutes tick down until most of our time is gone. “Look, before this is over, I need to see you at top speed. Down the ice and back.”
Something complicated flickers through his gaze. “Yeah. Okay.”
“Stay nice and straight down center ice.” I make an exaggerated arm movement, like those guys at the airport who tell airplanes where to park. “I’m interested in the symmetry of your gait.” Or lack thereof.
“Yes, Coach Carson,” he says flatly. But then he springs forward in a speedy takeoff, and I don’t have any time to be annoyed.
I’m too busy watching the motion of a great athlete at work.
There’s so much natural power. It’s the stride of someone who figured out the physics of steel on frozen water before he was old enough to read.
And yet there’s something a little off with the way he transitions from his right leg to his left. It’s not my imagination.
I make him do it three times, and when he’s finished, I put plenty of distance between the journalists and myself and wave him over for a private chat. “Do you have any joint pain in your hips or knees that’s not in your chart? Any injuries at all besides that shoulder you treated a year ago?”
He frowns. “You’re not the first one to ask. My hips have been a little stiff, especially on the right side. But it’s the kind of stiffness that goes away when I warm up.”
“Does it feel stiff right now?” I press.
He shakes his head.
“Do you remember when this stiffness began?”
“Um…” He crosses his arms. “Just as the regular season got underway. Maybe six weeks ago?”
“And did you take any big hits around then?”
He snorts. “I take a big hit in every freaking game. Big hits are just… Wednesday.”
“Right, sorry. But tell me—how did your stride feel to you just now, when you were sprinting?”
He rubs his jaw, and the gesture is so familiar that I want to cry. “Well… it’s janky. But it’s hard to say why.”
I knew it. “Now can you stand with your feet hip-width apart, skates parallel, shoulders down and back?”
Without asking why, he takes the stance I ask for.
“Great.” I clear my throat and sink into a crouch so I’m eye level with his pelvis. “Now, uh, lift your shirt a few inches so I can see your waist.”
His eyes narrow. But he lifts his shirt, and…Holy mother of God. It’s not the same view I got all those years ago. I’ve never seen a body that hard. It’s practically indecent.
“Zoe, if you’re trying to get me naked, this is a weird-ass way to do it,” he grumbles.
“I’m aware,” I say, squinting at the rippling geography of his midsection. And if I’m not mistaken, I can hear the cameras firing, too. I stand straight again, and he drops his shirt. “Do you ever see a chiropractor?”
“I have, but not recently. Why?”
“Well, I have this theory…” I brace myself for his skepticism. Because it’s going to sound a little bonkers.