Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Mollie
Sitting on the exam table with my left shoe and sock off, I shiver against the cold in the room. It's always so damn cold in here.
When my orthopedic surgeon pushes a box of tissues my way, I know he’s going to give me bad news. My stomach sinks.
"I'm sorry, but there's no way I can clear you to train for a competition.
" Dr. Burke's expression remains impassive as he sits in front of me on a rolling chair in his exam room.
"I know it's not what you want to hear, Mollie.
When you broke three bones in your ankle last year, my first assessment was that you would be very lucky to skate at the championship level again.
I warned that the whole process would be a wait-and-see situation.
In my opinion, you've healed well, but I wouldn't trust this ankle to land a lutz. Not yet. Maybe not ever."
My eyes fill with tears. I press my fingers against my eyelids, take a deep breath, and blow it out slowly.
This isn't what I needed today.
"Sorry," I mumble. "I know you prepared me. It's just hard to hear."
Dr. Burke nods, smiling kindly, and nudges the tissues again. "Take your time. We're talking about big things here. It's perfectly natural to feel upset."
I sniff. "The window to compete is so short. I keep hoping that I'll come here and magically be able to get on the ice, but... I haven't even walked on the ice in cleats since the accident. It's too scary."
"It's a common fear after this type of fracture. Even if people are physically able to skate, there are often serious mental blocks. I can give you the name of several sports therapists if you're interested in talking to someone."
I need that about as badly as I need another compound fracture.
But I smile and nod as Dr. Burke runs over the physical therapy I still need and wraps up the appointment.
I wipe my eyes for a final time as I walk out the door of the office.
Not that I had especially high hopes for the day or anything.
But Dr. Burke ground what little hope I did have into a superfine dust.
I sit in my car for several minutes, staring off into space, feeling oddly numb. My job with the Seattle Havoc is great. It's just not the life I planned.
Back at my building, I climb the four flights to my apartment, unlock the three deadbolts and shoulder inside. It's tiny, and drafty, and the fridge runs warm, but it's mine.
Every single thing in it, I paid for myself. That still counts for something. It's four hundred square feet of proof that I exist independently. I love it more than I've loved most things.
You know what I need? A little pep. Sure, my coffee maker is every bit as thirdhand as everything else in my apartment, but it'll make a micro pot of coffee at any hour of the day. Once I pull off the Post-it note reminding me to CALL MOM, I brew a pot and look through my socials as it percolates.
As I scroll through my feed, my attention snags on a twelve-year-old girl in a skating dress, doing smooth figure eights on a seemingly endless loop.
I click on the girl's profile and see her doing Choctaws and Mohawks, and even toe loops and camel spins.
She's good. I think that if my parents had let me have an Instagram at her age, I would've gotten into competitions faster, or at the very least found a coach sooner.
My throat tightens at the sudden flash of memory. Coach Savard, guiding me through the first series of jumps when I was twelve. How proud he was. How he told me I could do anything.
The way he said my name when I landed a particularly tricky jump. Mollie, chérie, like I was the only person on the ice. He was the first coach who made me feel like skating was mine and I wasn't just executing someone else's vision.
Coach Savard had this way of paying attention that felt like being held up rather than held down. He was the first person who saw me, I used to tell people.
How well that turned out. I taste bile in the back of my throat and push the memory away.
My phone rings in my hand, startling me.
"Hey Mom," I answer. "What's up?"
"Hey baby girl. Your dad's here, too. We were just wanting to know how things are all the way up there in Seattle.
" My mom's Southern drawl immediately centers me.
I bet she and Dad are in the living room of the house that Beck bought them, sitting in matching recliners.
In the background, I can hear old reruns on their TV.
"Hi, Moll-Doll," my dad chimes in. "How's my baby girl today?"
Crushed. A little hopeless. Despondent?
But I don't tell them that. I’m really depressed by today’s news; there’s no reason for them to be depressed, too. So I go with, "Good! Staying busy. The usual."
"Is your brother feeding you? I told him to make sure you and my grandbaby are eating," Mom says. She pauses. "Oh, honey. The dog's barking up a storm. Here, talk to your dad."
Dad clears his throat. "Since I got you, have you thought about what I told you the other day?"
"About going back to school to be an elementary school teacher?" I wrinkle my nose. "I guess."
"I saw a report on KTUV news that said that Washington state is hiring teachers. They made it sound like a real good opportunity, Mollie."
I pull down a mug and pour some coffee in it. "Oh yeah?"
Dad proceeds to ramble in my ear about staying busy, the economy being bad, and how teaching can bring me stability in life.
It's too bad that I have less than zero interest in teaching.
It sounds boring, frankly. I don't know how my teachers droned on about history for all the years I was in school without losing it.
But I'm his little girl, and he does worry, so I let him drone on for four minutes before cutting him off.
"Oh shoot, Daddy. I have to run. I'm going to be late."
"All right, Moll-Doll. Be safe up there. Love you!"
"Love y-" He hangs up before I can get it out.
Setting my phone down, I walk over to my bed, pick up a pillow, and scream into it.
My parents have this vision of me that doesn't exist anymore.
To them, I'll always be Beck's little sister, the girl who skates on the weekends and needs a lot of looking after.
When I talk to them, I feel like I'm being not-so-gently herded toward safety.
I drop the pillow and walk to the window.
I think my parents are a big reason that I'm so attracted to Thorne. They are huge believers in manners, in saying the right thing, in playing it safe. In public, Thorne is the PR department’s dream.
Saying the right things, backing them up with his actions.
But he’s never been that way with me. He's always very up front with me. He's not worried about saying the right things or being too politically correct. And he doesn't seem even remotely concerned with playing it safe. Thorne lives his life by his own rules.
Much as I'm loath to admit it, I’m really jealous that he can play the media so well.
That's why I've been hovering around the idea of asking Thorne to take my virginity.
He's been with a ton of women. Groupies whisper that he's the best they've ever had.
Thorne knows his way around a woman's body.
And with his lack of bullshit, I could see him afterward without it being uniquely awful.
He's never once bragged about his conquests or been caught participating in "locker room talk". Vomit.
More than that, though, is the specific way he pays attention.
The patience he has, even if he never shows it to me.
The way he handles Gordie with real love.
And I know that's not what this would be, which is fine.
I want one night with someone who actually knows what they're doing and won't make it a whole thing afterward.
Thorne can do that. He's done it a hundred times.
That plus my unending crush on him makes him the perfect candidate.
Every year that passes with me remaining a virgin seems a bigger and bigger deal. I'm not interested in rose petals and poems. I want to be fucked. And then I want Thorne to go right back to hating me.
Simple enough, right? If I can just get up the nerve to ask him.
My phone pings with a text from Indie.
Bar?
I grin and text her back.
YES!
Indie will know how to get me the fuck out of my head. That's the energy I need after this morning's news.
The walk over to The Secret History is long enough for me to clear some of the bats out of my belfry.
The Secret History is the bottom floor of the Sinclair Building, better known as the Sin Bin, used as housing for newcomers to the team.
And it’s breathtaking. It's fashioned after an upscale library, with teak floors, brass finishes, and books stacked in every conceivable nook.
Olivier, one of the bar's owners, looks up from polishing a glass behind the slick teak counter when I walk in. He grins when he sees me, and points to where Indie is already sitting at the bar.
I slide into a seat. "Hey y'all. What's shakin’?"
"Ask Indie." Olivier pulls out a champagne flute. "You having a French 75?"
"Like I would come here and not have one." I wiggle my eyebrows and look at Indie. "What's up with you?"
She laughs. "I may or may not have been regaling Olivier with stories about Theo."
"Wait, like... Theo Kozlov? The center?”
"Mmm, maybe." Her eyes glow with mischief. "Why, is that bad?"
"No. I didn't realize you were into him, that's all. You know that dating anybody on the team is..." I pause, trying to find a less harsh word than first comes to mind. "Complicated."
"You are such a goody-two-shoes. You’re allowed to say that most of the guys are sluts."