Chapter 27
After my coaching sessions, I have barely enough time to run home to my apartment for my figure skates and apply more deodorant.
But maybe it’s better this way—just getting the first rehearsal over with.
Like ripping off a Band-Aid, if Band-Aids were the same as holding Chase’s hand for the first time in a decade and staring into his eyes as we spin together.
I’m probably the only person alive whose favorite foreplay was practicing camel spins, but I’ve always been a little weird.
Back at the Legends’ headquarters, I carry my skates into the equipment room.
Bernie, the equipment guy, looks up from the sharpener.
“Afternoon, Coach Carson. You need something?” He’s a white guy, late twenties if I had to guess, with an unfortunate mustache.
But he’s got one of the coolest jobs in sports—taking care of all the players’ skates and equipment.
He spends each game behind the bench, with extra sticks, repair tools, and duct tape at the ready.
Like hockey’s answer to Tony Stark, but without the metal suit.
“I was hoping to sneak in there and touch up my skates.”
“Don’t trust me to do it?” he says with a teasing smile.
“I, um…” It’s egotistical of me to say this to a guy who takes care of some of the best skaters in hockey. “I didn’t know if you ever worked with figure skates.”
He chuckles. “I don’t blame you, but I grew up sharpening all kinds of skates. And I was just finishing up with Chase’s. Here—take a look.” He passes me a brand-new pair of Risport Elites, right out of the box.
I let out a low whistle. “These are sweet.” And when I run my thumb over the blade, the edge is perfect. “Nice job. I apologize.”
He just grins and takes my skates from me, giving them a quick once-over. “I got you covered, Coach. Nice and sharp, right?”
“Please.”
The hum of the sharpener fills the room, and his face creases with concentration. I use the time to check my texts. There’s a new one from my mother, so I brace myself.
Zoe, how about this weekend for a visit? I want to see your new apartment.
Now there’s a terrible idea. But I have the perfect excuse—another junior tournament, this time on Long Island.
There’s also a message from Darcy.
OMG, you’re having a rehearsal today? Guess I’m taking a lunch break at 1!
Oh lord. The gossip in this place.
Bernie hands my skates back a few minutes later. “Good luck out there.”
“In figure skating we say ‘break a leg’ instead.”
He gives me an incredulous look. “Seriously?”
“It’s a weird sport. Thanks for your help!” I take my skates and march out to the rink to face the music. I plunk down on the bench and loosen the laces.
A moment later, Chase joins me on the bench. He sets his new skates down and kicks off his shoes.
I give him my bravest smile. “Brand-new boots, huh?” I ask. “Blister city.”
“Maybe,” he agrees. “But at least there’s no duct tape on them this time.”
My heart softens at the memory of his old taped skates. “You were such a badass, skating in those things when everyone else in the building had custom-fit Riedells. I don’t think I really appreciated that.”
He looks up, surprise on his handsome face. “Don’t sweat it, Ice Princess. Having to work for everything was highly motivating.”
Still. It makes me wonder what else I missed back then. “Do those fit you okay?”
“Guess we’ll find out.” He gives the laces a tug.
With my skates tied, I prop my phone up on the edge of the boards and set it to video. We’ll probably need to see the replay to know how we’re doing. Then I kick a leg up into the air and stretch out my hamstrings.
I catch Chase watching me. “What?”
He frowns. “Gotta warn you, I’ll be rusty.”
“You’ll be fine,” I say, leaning into the stretch. “You’re one of the more natural skaters I’ve ever seen. You know you ruined me for other hockey players?”
His eyes widen. “Um, what?”
“Your skating.” I shrug. “I thought they’d all skate like you. Then I started working with college players during my internship, and I realized how few of them will ever skate like you.”
“Oh.” He chuckles. “Maybe you’d better hold the praise until after we try this. What do you think about the music, though? That’s the first thing we need to decide.”
He’s right, but I’m not looking forward to this discussion. “You always had opinions about music. What direction do you want to take this?”
After tying his laces in a bow, he stands up. “Hate to admit it, but DeLuca was right. It would be easier to skate the same routine again.”
Easier for who? “Do you think you’d remember it?”
“Probably?” He shrugs one shoulder. “At the very least, I’ll remember some of it.
And it’s hard to imagine starting from scratch.
I’m ten years out of practice. I mean, if you want to choreograph something dumbed down—like a TikTok dance on skates—I’m sure I could pick that up quick.
But if it’s going to be real skating, then something familiar would help. ”
I pull my phone out of my pocket and open up that video, which I’ve downloaded for review. With the sound off, I watch it on fast-forward. “There are sections that we could simplify, if we have to. The spins were pretty elaborate. Do you still clown around with jumps and spins?”
He dodges my gaze and gives his head a shake. “Never.”
“Hmm. Well…” It’s not like I want to skate our old program, but it’s probably for the best. “I guess we’ll dust it off. Should we watch it through right now?” I wiggle my phone.
“Fuck no. I’ll watch it later.”
Okayyyy.
“Let’s warm up first,” he says gruffly. “I need to get used to these skates. And then you can remind me how it starts.”
“Fine. We’ll start slow,” I agree. “I thought we’d just warm up with some crossovers. Try a few spins, see how rusty you are. Take a few laps first?”
“Definitely. Give me a minute to stretch.”
I leave him alone, gliding out onto the freshly surfaced ice. The last time I put figure skates on was a month ago. I was living in my childhood bedroom in Massachusetts and applying for coaching jobs.
“You might as well help me out,” my mother said. “It’s not like you’re busy.” So I strapped on my skates and taught little girls to jump and twirl.
But today I’m skating just for me, and I can’t even remember the last time I did that.
The sound of my edges cutting the ice is as familiar as breathing.
As my muscles activate, I fall into a comfortable rhythm, gliding into crossovers at center ice.
Then I try a couple of dramatic arabesques, since our program is full of them.
I’m probably not as flexible as I was at eighteen, but I can still do this. And my bad knee feels strong. So for the first time in months, I throw a double axel and land it cleanly, just to prove I can.
But then I hear applause.
Turning around, I spot a cluster of hockey players on the other side of the plexi. DeLuca, Tremaine, Weber, and O’Connell are all standing there, smiles on their nosy faces. Even Darcy is along for the ride.
That’s not great. I’m supposed to take Chase’s hand and rehearse the sexiest choreography I’ve ever skated in my life. We do not need an audience.
Chase glides out onto the ice. Ignoring the peanut gallery, he takes a few easy strokes. Bending into a sequence of lunges, he tests the edges of his blades, experimenting with the feel of the new steel under his feet.
Then he spins around and skates backward. I’m just admiring his form when he suddenly trips. I watch in disbelief as he sprawls across the ice, bouncing his chin off the surface.
And the look on his face? Pure bewilderment.
A howl of shocked laughter rises up from the other end of the rink. “Oh my God! Toe pick!”
“It’s just like in that movie!” someone shouts.
As I fly over to him, Chase is already getting up, rubbing his chin and scowling. “Are you okay?” I demand.
“Of course,” he growls.
“Let’s see a jump!” DeLuca hoots.
Oh, for fuck’s sake. “Darcy!” I yell.
“Yes, Coach?”
“Could you go into the equipment room and ask Bernie how many pairs of men’s and women’s figure skates they have in the rental bins? Anyone who’s still in this room in five minutes is joining us on the rink for a figure skating clinic.”
“Oh shit,” someone whispers.
“Not joking!” I yell. “And if there’s any video of today, heads will roll.”
“Yes, Coach!” Darcy repeats.
Funnily enough, Chase and I are alone in the rink not sixty seconds later. “Are you really okay?” I ask him.
“Said so, didn’t I?”
“You’re going to have a bruise on your chin,” I point out. “When you lie about where it’s from, just don’t say it’s a bar fight.”
His surly expression softens a degree or two. He jerks a thumb toward the doors. “Nice work getting rid of that bunch.”
“I know, right?” I played the tough-coach card for once, and it worked. “You should take a few more minutes to warm up.”
“You think?” he mumbles. But then he skates off smoothly. As I watch, he takes a couple of fast laps, then experiments with some footwork. He shifts his weight effortlessly from edge to edge, then transitions into spirals.
I watch, amazed at how quickly it all comes back to him. Is it really any wonder I fell for him? He was fun, he was kind to me, and he skates like an angel. My poor teenage heart didn’t stand a chance.
He moves into a spin, body tight, muscles bulging. If we do this and it lands on the internet, a large proportion of female fans—and some of the men—will lose their minds.
He finishes the spin and catches me watching him. “Maybe I’ve still got it.”
“Maybe,” I say mildly. “Just don’t jump, Hotshot. It’s against the rules. Did you try a camel spin?”
“Not yet.”
“It’s okay to be afraid.”
He lets out a startled laugh. “Did you just call me chicken?” Before I can answer, he breaks into back crossovers, arms strong yet fluid. He pauses in the backward glide, leg outstretched… Then he just goes for it. The rotation is clean and controlled, his extension beautiful.
Then he comes to a smooth stop, and I remember to exhale.
“Still got it,” he says. “But now the room is spinning!” He gives me a sheepish smile. Our eyes meet, and I feel a warmth inside my chest that I haven’t felt in a long time. Then he pulls his phone out of his pocket. “All right. I’ll put on the song. We’ll see how much we remember.”
“Sure,” I say, clearing my throat. “It starts with, um, crossovers into some arabesques. Meet you at center ice.”
He glides over to the side and fiddles with his phone, and I wait. Keep it together, Carson, I coach myself. Although my heart thumps as Chase skates toward me and makes a perfect T-stop at my side.
Here we go. I extend my hand, palm down.
He gives me a heavy glance. Then he extends his hand, palm up.
I can’t even look at him as his roughened hand slides against mine—I’m afraid of what my face might show.
And I wait a couple of seconds for the music.
But that’s a long time when you’re holding Chase Merritt’s hand, like the dreamy girl you once were.
I still miss him.
Then the music finally starts, and my body remembers what to do. I push into the first crossovers.
Chase does, too, but a beat too late. We struggle to regulate our timing. By the third bar of music, we’re still out of sync. Badly. When we hit the first arabesque, I’m a half beat ahead. And then we both overcorrect, so the next time it happens the opposite way.
“Fuck,” Chase mutters.
“Keep going,” I say tensely. “We’ll get better.”
We stick it out another fifteen seconds or so, until the side-by-side camel spin. But our timing is so off that we have to bail out of the turn in opposite directions, just to prevent a collision.
I skate over to pause the music, and I’m sweatier than I really should be after a few minutes of skating. “Okay, so we’re rusty.”
“You think?” He growls.
“It happens to everyone,” I say, and it sounds like the foolish platitude that it really is.
Chase shakes out his neck. “No problem. Start it up again.”
“Right. We can do this.”
Spoiler alert: We can’t do this.
The second run-through is a little better. Maybe. If I’m generous. But the third attempt is a disaster. No matter what we try, we can’t seem to sync up with the music.
After the fifth try, Chase whips off his hoodie and flings it at the bench with an angry shout.
I’m so startled I suck in a breath.
“What?” he says, face red. “You think this is going well?”
“Not really. Do you regret saying yes?”
“Do you wish I hadn’t?” He skates in a circle, his face red with frustration. “You said yes, too.”
“You think I had a choice?” I fling my arms out to the sides. “One of us has a multimillion-dollar contract, the other can’t make her rent payment. You can let Sailor down if you have to, but don’t pin it on me.”
He puts his hands on his trim hips and glares at me. “You want me to drop out now? After…” He looks at his watch. “Twenty-two minutes of effort? Is that who you think I am?”
“Is it?” I shrug, my anger rising to a boil. “I have no idea. Last time we hit a roadblock, you left town and forgot my number. Pardon me if I can’t vouch for your history of toughing it out in difficult times.”
And the second I say it, I wish I could claw it back. That wasn’t fair to him. I need to move on from our teenage crap. His blue eyes flare with anger, and I see him take a slow breath. The kind you take when you’re trying not to say something you’ll regret.
Meanwhile, Chris Isaak sings mournfully about his broken heart in the background.
“Just say it. Whatever it is,” I demand. “That was out of line, and I’m sorry.”
He just shakes his head. “Don’t bring up shit that you don’t really want to dig into, Ice Princess. You won’t like what I have to say.”
“Oh yeah? Would it be worse than your grumpy silence? Because that’s so much fun already.”
His face falls. Then he does a snappy little bracket turn and skates for the exit.
“Chase Merritt! We’re not done with our ice time. Don’t bail. Not again.”
He steps off the ice and grabs his phone and his sweatshirt. “You’re so angry at me that you never stop and think. Maybe I didn’t block you for spite.”
“Then why did you?”
He slaps his skate guards over his blades. “Because she made me.”
“Who did?” But the moment I ask, the truth pools like ice in my stomach.
“Sister Walsh,” he says. “She stood over me and watched me do it. Can’t believe that never occurred to you before.”
And while I’m standing there with my jaw unhinged, he turns and goes.