Chapter Three
The Quarterback Scramble
I startle, realizing Regan's coach has walked around the arena to reach us while I was locked in my staring contest with the sexy skater. Up close, Bohdan is more imposing than he seemed from a distance, with broad-shoulders and shrewd eyes that I suspect miss nothing.
"Sorry, sir," I lamely state before clearing my throat. Why do I feel like a teenager caught somewhere I shouldn't be? "I didn't mean to interrupt, sir."
"Yet you are still here." He points out, then thrusts a finger at me. "This is private practice time."
I glance around the empty rink. "I thought it was a public facility."
"Public hours are posted outside," Bohdan explain crisply. "This is reserved time."
"Right. Sure, I get it." I should leave. I know I should. But something about the way Regan watches me with her cheeks dimpled gets me even hornier. And my brain decides now is the right moment to blurt out, "I'm Mike. Mike Hannigan."
Regan skates closer to the barrier, her movements fluid even in that small gesture. "I'm Regan Banks."
"Nice to meet you, Regan. Sorry if I crashed your training. Your skating is phenomenal, and I guess I was sort of mesmerized seeing you in action."
Her lips curl into a sweet little smile. "I've never skated for a man who isn't a figure skater too---or a coach. It's nice to talk to a normal person."
"Not sure I qualify as normal." I shrug and smile sheepishly. "I'm a pro football player."
Her entire expression lights. "A fellow athlete? That's wonderful. What team do you play for?"
"The Portland Bigfoots."
"What a cute name."
Cute? Not hardly. She's weird but I like it. "The legends of Bigfoot aka Sasquatch bring in tons of tourists."
"Really? I'd love to see a cryptid up-close. Wouldn't you?"
When I open my mouth to speak again, Bohdan cuts me off by clearing his throat deliberately. "If you are finished with introductions, lapochka..."
Her shoulders flag as she skates away gracefully, glancing back at me. "Good luck with your next game, Mr. Quarterback."
Her coach rolls his eyes.
I ignore Bohdan. "Good luck to you too, Regan. And your Russian coach."
Why does it look she's struggling not to burst into laughter?
"What's so funny?" I ask.
"Just wait. You'll find out in precisely three seconds. One, two, three..."
Bohdan clenches his teeth and snarls, "I am not Russian! I am Ukrainian!"
I hold my hands up. "Okay, sorry, I didn't know that."
He jabs a finger at me while still seething. "Russians are the excrement of the universe!"
Okay, now I know Russians and Ukrainians apparently hate each other. Good to know. Guess I'd better leave before the coach goes thermonuclear on me. "I should get going. Nice to meet you both, and sorry I offended your coach, Regan."
Before I can accidentally cause any more of an international incident, I grab my stuff and head for the doors. But I give Regan a quick smile over my shoulder that makes her smile too in the cutest way.
I doubt I'll ever see her again. But you never know...
As I walk out of the rink and onto the street, I pull in a deep breath of chilly air.
But I can't help smiling. Something about Regan got under my skin in the best way.
Her elegance as she moved across the ice kept me bewitched me, as if gravity was optional and friction didn't apply to her.
I unlock my car but pause before getting in, glancing back at the building one more time.
My day began as a complete dumpster fire but somehow ended with me bumping into the most intriguing woman I've met.
Figure skater meets football quarterback.
Talk about opposites.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. It's Coach Thompson, as I call him. He probably wants to remind me of how spectacularly I screwed up today's practice. So, I let it ring through to voicemail. Whatever lecture he's prepared can wait until tomorrow.
The drive back to my place takes longer than it should.
I find myself replaying every moment from the rink, from the graceful way Regan's blades carved the ice to the flash of disappointment on her face when her coach interrupted us.
It's ridiculous how much mental real estate I'm giving someone I just met for all of five minutes.
When I get home, I toss my keys on the counter and grab a bottle of water from the fridge.
But I still can't stop thinking about Regan.
Chandra moved out months ago, and my apartment feels emptier than usual tonight.
Her absence is still marked by negative space---the missing throw pillows, the bare spot where her favorite painting hung, the empty side of the closet that I can see through my bedroom door.
I flop onto the couch and finally check Coach Thompson's voicemail. "Hannigan, I need you focused tomorrow."
Yeah, he would be worried about my performance today. I delete the text without listening and toss my phone onto the coffee table. I'm too wired to sit still. The memory of Regan keeps flashing through my mind. Her grace, her power, her absolute control.
I grab my laptop and, before I can talk myself out of it, type "Regan Banks figure skater" into the search bar.
Several hits come up immediately. Turns out she isn't just some random skater.
She's competed nationally and has Olympic dreams, or so I read in a lengthy article that profiled her career so far.
The writer called Regan "the next Tara Lipinski," whatever that means.
When I come across a video from last year's championships, I can't believe Regan placed only fourth.
She deserves a gold medal. So, I click play and find myself leaning forward, studying every second of her routine with an intensity that surprises even me.
The way she launches into jumps, the height she achieves.
..Regan's airborne for what seems like impossible stretches of time.
Her expression throughout her routine remains intense and single-minded, but I also notice an undercurrent of joy that breaks through at certain moments.
When she lands a particularly difficult jump, a smile flashes across her face so briefly you'd miss it if you blinked.
I watch three more videos before I realize it's past midnight. Tomorrow's early practice is going to hurt, but I don't regret it. Watching Regan makes me feel...inspired. That's not a word I've associated with myself lately.
My phone buzzes again. It's Ernie this time, not Coach Thompson.
"Hannigan." Ernie's voice is gruff but concerned. "You okay, son? You looked like hell warmed over at practice today."
I rub my eyes, leaning back against the sofa. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just one of those days."
Ernie grunts. "'One of those days' doesn't explain you missing passes a high school freshman could catch."
He isn't angry, but disappointed. Somehow that's worse. "I'll do better tomorrow."
"You'd better be. Thompson's breathing down my neck about your performance. Said if you don't shape up by Friday's scrimmage, he's considering benching you for the exhibition game."
"What? He can't do that. I'm the starting quarterback."
"He can and he will if you keep playing like you did today. Get your head on straight, Hannigan."
"I will. See you tomorrow, Coach."
After hanging up, I stare at my laptop screen where a frozen image of Regan in mid-spin stares back at me. My own reflection in the dark screen seems haggard. I shut the laptop and head for the shower, hoping the hot water might wash away some of today's mistakes.
Under the spray, I let my mind drift. Football has been my whole life for as long as I can remember. My dad tells everyone he knows how proud he is of me. But lately, the passion's been missing. Every practice feels like going through motions I've memorized rather than playing a game I love.
I towel off and collapse in bed, expecting to fall asleep immediately after the day I've had.
Instead, I find myself staring at the ceiling while my thoughts drift back to the ice rink.
To Regan. To the way she seemed to defy physics with every jump and spin.
Her passion is genuine and so different from the grinding obligation I've been feeling lately.
What would Ernie say if I told him I spent my evening watching figure skating videos instead of reviewing game footage? He'd have a coronary right on the spot. The thought makes me smile despite everything.
When sleep finally comes, I dream of ice and movement and blue eyes that I swear see right through me.
Morning arrives with the obnoxious blare of my alarm.
I drag myself out of bed, feeling every hit from yesterday's practice in my muscles.
The shower helps, but my brain still feels foggy as I grab a protein shake and my gym bag.
I'm early to practice for the first time in weeks. And I know exactly why.
Her name is Regan Banks.