Chapter 17 #2
He lifts his eyebrows, giving me an ocean-blue flash of wariness. “Well, don’t keep the sports news media in suspense,” he says, gesturing toward the onlookers, who are probably getting bored right about now.
“Okay, look—it’s possible that your pelvis is a little out of joint. There’s some asymmetry in your stride, and it might be due to an issue with…” I swallow. “Pelvic alignment.”
“Pelvic alignment, huh?” The corners of his mouth twitch. “Oh, baby.”
“Stop it,” I hiss. “I’m not kidding.”
“Seriously?” He rolls his shoulders, looking irritated. “That can’t be true. Wouldn’t I know?”
“Maybe?” I say, wishing it didn’t sound so outlandish. “It’s rare to be out of alignment in the, uh, pelvic area and not feel pain, but it’s possible.”
The skepticism practically drips off him. “And this is your big theory for why I can’t fucking…” He sighs. “Move my ass at the speed I’m used to?”
“Yes.” And the rest comes out in a gust. “The asymmetry in your gait is slowing you down. And I just don’t buy that you’re suddenly too old or suddenly don’t care or suddenly forgot how to skate, like social media says after every game.”
I can tell this idea hits home when the smirk slides off his face. “Still sounds ridiculous.”
“So then I’m ridiculous,” I insist. “But it’s a cheap experiment, Chase. A chiropractor would do an X-ray and a consultation. Will you please consider it? I just… have a feeling.”
“Oh. Well. If it’s a feeling.” He glares at me. “And if I go along with one of your big ideas, what’s the worst that could happen? Amirite?”
My face falls, and I’m reminded for the zillionth time that Chase has no reason to trust me. All I’ve ever done is cause him problems.
He scrubs a hand down his face. “Never mind. Is our time up yet?”
“Almost.”
Chase glances toward the peanut gallery. “Sailor looks twitchy. Like if we don’t do something entertaining, he’s going to have to break out the shadow puppets.”
“Agreed,” I say, turning toward the crowd. “Let’s do one more flashy drill so I can show off my new hockey skates again.”
Another flicker of humor passes through his eyes. Or maybe I’m just really stressed out and was hoping to see one. “Sure,” he says. “But make this one a race. I gotta prove that I can still beat a girl.”
“Okay, tough guy,” I shoot back. “But no crying when you lose.”
It takes me only a couple of minutes to kick the cones into place and explain the rules to Chase. “We’ll drive in opposite directions. First one to complete the course wins. But if you knock over a cone, you lose. Steve?” I call, lifting the whistle over my head. “Will you start us off?”
“Sure!” he says with the grin of a showman.
I toss him the whistle, which he catches.
Then I line up on the opposite end of the U-shaped course from Chase. We both dig into our edges, waiting for the signal. “Don’t hurt yourself trying to win,” I say primly. “It wouldn’t be worth it.”
Every journalist titters.
“For f—” Chase starts, his voice low, before glancing at the cameras and correcting with “for crying out loud” under his breath.
And then the shrill sound of the whistle pierces the air.
I explode into motion, my edges biting into the ice as I accelerate toward the first turn. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of Chase matching my pace on the opposite side of the U. He doesn’t need as many strides to do it, though.
As I lean into the first corner, my inside edge carves a clean arc as I navigate around the cone. The familiar rush of competition floods my veins, and for a moment, I forget about the journalists, the tension, everything but the race.
As we approach the bottom of the U, I can see Chase more clearly.
He moves with surprising grace for such a big guy, his powerful strides eating up the ice.
Before we pass each other, our eyes meet for a split second.
The fire in his gaze almost stops me in my tracks.
Because I recognize that look. He’s having fun. The way we used to.
Then he’s flying past me. My legs burn as we start up the other side of the U, but I ignore it, focusing on my form. Chase is gaining ground, too.
The final turn looms. I lean in hard, my thighs screaming as I whip a hairpin turn around the cone. But Chase is already turning, too.
We sprint for the finish line. The ice flies beneath our blades, the world narrowing to just this moment, this race.
In the end, Chase’s longer stride gives him the advantage. He crosses the finish line a split second before me, both of us breathing hard as we slow to a stop.
“Damn,” I pant, hands on my knees. “Guess you can still beat a girl after all.”
“Barely,” he admits. “You almost had me on that last turn.”
I look up into his blue eyes, and I’m transported back a decade. For a split second it’s just the two of us again, red-cheeked and happy, oblivious to the rest of the world.
The sound of applause brings me back to earth, though. I straighten up just as Chase does the same.
“Isn’t she great?” Steve Sailor is crowing. “Coach Carson will take your questions in a moment.”
Dismissed, Chase skates toward the bench, and I hurry to follow him. His agent is waiting there with his shoes. “Nice show you two put on,” Bess says. “But please tell me you figured out exactly what he needs.”
“Since you mentioned it…”
Chase groans quietly as he steps off the ice and onto the rubber mats.
“I want him to see a chiropractor immediately.”
“Huh,” Bess says. “I’ll find him someone. But why?”
“Zoe has a stupid theory,” Chase mutters, taking his shoes from Bess.
“It’s not stupid,” I argue. “It’s merely improbable. But…”
My gaze falls on the shoes, and I lose my train of thought. They’re a beat-up pair of the same classic Adidas Sambas that Chase always favored—white with black stripes. He’s a rich man now. It’s interesting to see that he still wears his shoes out before he buys a new pair.
Interesting, and possibly important. “Let me see those?” I say. But then I’m so impatient that I don’t wait for an answer. I lean forward and grab the shoes out of his hands.
“Sniff those at your own risk,” Bess says. “Hockey players have stinky feet. I know because I married one.”
But I’m not listening. I’m too busy turning them over to study the soles. And as soon as I get a look, I let out a sound of disbelief. The right outer sole is seriously worn down. And the left one isn’t. “Look. See that? Now do you believe me?”
Chase grabs the shoe out of my hands and stares at it. “Shit.”
“Hey,” Bess says. “What’s causing that?”
“Ask the chiropractor,” I insist. “But I think he may have dislocated his pelvis and made his gait uneven.” I pull one of my new business cards out of my pocket and thrust it at Bess. “Let me know if I’m right.”
She takes the card and clutches it to her chest. “Honey, I’ll buy you a bottle of expensive champagne if you’re right. Chase, did you smile pretty for the cameras?”
He isn’t listening, though. He’s still staring at his shoe. Then he lifts his gaze and gives me a long, thoughtful look that makes my face flush.
“If I’m right,” I chirp, “then you might have to stop hating me.”
His expression shutters immediately, and Bess just looks baffled.
Oops. I just made it awkward again.
“Coach Carson?” calls the publicist from across the ice.
“I’ve got to…” I say, pointing over my shoulder.
“Go,” Bess says. “We’ll follow up later.”
I turn and skate back toward the journalists, and toward Steve Sailor, who looks impatient. “Zoe can take your questions at this time,” he says.
Several hands shoot up, and so does my blood pressure.
Sailor calls on “Marco from ESPN.”
“How do hockey players feel about taking tips from a tiny woman?” the guy asks.
I suppose that question was inevitable. “A couple things,” I say, wondering how much the PR guy is going to hate my answer. “I seem to be drawn to jobs where people feel compelled to talk about my height and weight…”
There are exactly four women in my field of vision, including Darcy. And all four of them suddenly break into applause.
“But apart from that, I don’t really think my gender and stature matter a whole lot to this process.
I’m a skating nerd, and I’ve been one all my life.
The players here are professionals. They care about results.
If I can help them skate faster, turn quicker, or maintain their edge longer, that’s what matters. ”
Steve takes a question from someone else, who wants to know what kind of training a skating coach needs.
That’s an easier one, and I do a fine job explaining my coursework in biomechanics and performance coaching.
And then I take a question about a day in the life of a skating coach, which is silly since I haven’t had that many of them yet.
But it’s all fine, and I maintain my smile.
At least until a sports blogger asks something I wasn’t expecting.
“This question is for Mr. Sailor,” the woman says with a smile.
“How come figure skating doesn’t show up anywhere in Chase Merritt’s bio?
When I was prepping for this session, I found a really interesting video on the internet of Chase Merritt and Zoe from ten years ago. Haven’t you seen it?”
Sailor’s smile freezes on his face. “You don’t say.”