Chapter 9
NINE
ANNIKA
“Jenna?” My voice sounds normal. Calm. Controlled.
How? I have no idea.
Years of training my brain to make myself sound calm, and controlled, even when the rest of my body is not.
Jenna looks up from her monitor, fingers still hovering over the keyboard.
Morning light hits a glass bowl of mints and the colors ricochet like a prism.
Her eyes narrow. Receptionists are the heartbeat of an office and develop a sixth sense for people’s moods.
And Jenna’s radar is annoyingly accurate.
“You look like someone stole your Caramel macchiato with two extra pumps of caramel and extra whipped cream.”
I shove my hands into the pockets of my lab coat to keep from throwing my pen at her. Why does she always know when I’m upset?
“Please reschedule Mr. O’Ryan and whoever else has an appointment this afternoon.”
Jenna blinks once. Then again and the clicking of her keyboard stops.
“Why?” she asks.
“Just move it.” My tone comes out stern.
“Should I be concerned?”
“No. Of course not.” I say, inhaling through my nose, using the same technique I teach my athletes. Right now, I’m the one who needs to control my breathing and stop the spiral. “Just tell them we need to move the appt. I’ll stay later or come in earlier if needed all week.”
“I’ll schedule the famous wide receiver for after hours,” she winks.
She keeps her sight line directly on me, hoping to get a reaction and she does. “Jenna, just do what I ask. Whatever the patients need since I’m the one canceling.”
Some people assume that shrinks and counselors are the only ones who study behavior, but it comes naturally to some, and Jenna is one of the most perceptive people I’ve ever known.
“Are you sure you’re okay? Anything I can do for you?” she asks, offering me a butterscotch candy.
My phone vibrates in my coat pocket.
The same phone number.
International. A country code I haven’t seen for years until today.
Novadia.
My stomach tightens.
I only listened to the first part of the voicemail earlier and that was enough.
A male voice. Formal. Careful.
The first two words: Your father…
I hung up before I heard the reason he was calling. My instinct was to protect myself.
My ghosts follow me. I force a professional smile. “I’m perfect. Don’t worry. Just need some time to myself.”
Jenna doesn’t buy it based on the way a crease is forming between her eyebrows.
“Cancel everything after ten o’clock.”
Sitting at my desk, my head drops into my hands. Fear keeps me from listening to the second voicemail. Maybe I’ll listen to it after work so I can stay in work mode. Or at least try to.
After my only patient, I grab a bag from a closet and sling it over my shoulder, and I can’t get out of the office fast enough. I need the cold. I need to sweat while freezing. “Did you move all the appointments?” I ask.
“All done. You can count on me boss.” Then she glances at my bag, noticing the contents. Half of a skate and gloves sticking out. “You know if your clients, especially Parker, find out you’re canceling on him to go ice skating, you’ll lose their trust. Or be offended at a minimum.”
I grind my teeth together. “Mr. O’Ryan will survive.”
Jenna grins. “I don’t know. Football players are fragile.”
He’s hanging on by a thread, but how can I help any of them when I can’t concentrate.
When I don’t respond, Jenna continues, “It’s funny how you’re calling him Mr. O’Ryan. You don’t call any of your patients by their last name.”
Again, I don’t answer, instead I leave before she sees my hands shaking. Space. I need space between Parker and me. Between whoever is calling me.
The moment I step inside the rink my chest loosens. A bite of frozen air settles deep in my lungs. The rink smells the same as the last time I was here, three weeks ago—cold metal, Zamboni oil.
There are a few people on the ice. A young girl, a boy and an instructor. I sit on the bench and pull my skates from the bag. The blades gleam under the fluorescent lights. Thin and sharp.
The kid spins, her skirt fluttering through the air, balancing on the frozen water. Beautiful.
My father used to say skating was like walking on a knife’s edge.
Precision keeps you alive.
The memory slips in before I can stop it. I shove it away.
Lace the skates. Pull on my knit cap. Stand.
I push onto the ice. The first glide sends a shiver up my spine.
God, I missed this.
Push. Push. Then the familiar whisper begins beneath my blades.
For me, ice skating is like meditation. It calms me like nothing or no one else. It’s not like breathing exercises in quiet rooms. It’s the kind of calm that moves through me.
Glide.
Push.
Edge.
Turn.
Your brain can’t hold fear when your body is balancing on millimeters of steel.
I build speed around the edges as the lesson is being taught in the center. My muscles burn since it has been a while, but they haven’t forgotten.
Crossovers. Sharp arcs. Backwards edges. My muscles remember everything. My body trusts the ice. I always felt my blades run on a track, so I was always secure, safe.
On the ice, the world makes sense. Movement, control, and focus. Everything I lost.
My father used to stand at the rink boards yelling instructions in three languages.
Novadian.
Russian.
Curse words in English. His whistles echoing across the ice. His reputation echoed farther, until it shattered. I push harder and faster. The damp cold air stings my lungs.
Good. Pain silences memories.
I spin into a tight turn and skate backward around the rink. My blood pumps at a furious pace and it feels so good everything blurs. I’m free. Push, push.
The world tilts as I lose my edge and overcorrect. Ice rushes toward my back, but just in the nick of time, strong arms catch me and flip me over.
His back hits the ice.
My eyes squeeze shut, bracing for impact.
My chest lands on a solid wall of muscle.
His hands wrap around my waist.
When I open my eyes, I’m staring at a pair of eyes I’ve seen so many times but not from two inches away. Amusement flashes in his blue eyes.
“Annika?”
“Parker?” A jolt runs through me.
At the same time, we both say, “You skate?”
Surprised to see him here is an understatement. For a second neither of us moves. His fingers moving slightly against the small of my back.
His heart pounds under my hands. My breath fogs between us. Nerves skitter up my spine. Parker wears a black Armadillo team athletic shirt stretched across his shoulders.
No football helmet. No pads. Just Parker O’Ryan looking dangerously handsome lying flat on his back. His hair, loose and uncontrolled.
I scramble to stand feeling uncomfortable with our eyes locked, but his hand tightens around my waist, steadying me as I push up. The contact triggers something violent in my nervous system. My body reacts before my brain can stop it.
“Don’t touch me.” The words explode out of me.
Too loud. Slicing.
He bounces back up on his skates. His hands shoot up. “Whoa… okay.”
I stumble backward, chest heaving. With my pulse thundering in my ears, suddenly the rink feels too small.
Too enclosed. Trapped.
Parker’s expression shifts. His brows dip. His lips twist. A flash of concern in his eyes. “That escalated fast. I was trying to keep you from being bruised.” He reaches out.
“I said don’t touch me.”
“You were about to crack your head on the ice.”
“I had it.”
“Pretty sure gravity disagreed.” His dimples flash briefly. I hate those dimples.
We stand there a moment, just breathing.
“You canceled my appointment.”
My spine stiffens. What are the odds of Jenna being right and Parker seeing me at the ice rink. “And?”
“You canceled so you could… go ice skating?”
“It’s none of your business.”
He throws his head back, dark brown hair going in every direction and chuckles. “I mean it kind of is.”
“How?”
“You’re my psychologist.”
“I’m your performance coach.”
“Yet you’re not coaching me. At least I never canceled on you.”
“All the times you were late added up. Now you know how it feels.” I pop my hip.
“Ouch.”
His eyes sweep over me.
Black leggings.
Lavender fitted sweater, showing my too many curves.
Hair loose under my knit cap.
No glasses.
His eyes glaze over. “You look different.”
“So do you.”
He glances down at himself. “You mean without my equipment?”
“I mean on ice.”
“Fair.” He glides backward smooth as silk. Everything about him is easy.
“You’re good,” I say.
“You’ve seen me skate for thirty seconds.” His smile widens. For most women, I’m sure that’s all it takes. It’s unfair that some people get the looks and the athleticism.
I shake my head. “I’ll add can’t take a compliment to your list of annoying attributes.”
Without thinking, we settle into an easy rhythm, our skates gliding over the ice in long looping circles around the rink. Parker takes longer strides than I do, powerful pushes that eat up the ice like he’s not even trying.
I skate differently—tighter edges, controlled turns that come from years of drill and discipline under a ruthless man.
Somehow we keep pace.
The chill stings my lungs as I inhale, burning just enough to remind me I’m alive and the tension that chased me from my office earlier loosens. On the ice my body remembers what to do without asking permission from my brain. Push. Glide. Turn. Repeat.
Parker drifts beside me, then suddenly pivots and skates backwards doing crossovers with an ease that catches my attention.
His balance is solid, shoulders relaxed, his edges cutting smooth lines as if he has been doing this for years.
And I guess he has. This isn’t someone fumbling around the rink a few times per year. This is muscle memory.
I study him for another lap before my curiosity wins.
“When did you learn to skate?” I ask.
He exhales a small puffy white cloud that disappears into the cold air as he pushes into another long stride before answering.
“My granny took us when we were young a few times, but when I got into high school, the football team wanted us to do conditioning outside of practice.” He twists and comes to a stop in front of me. “It’s too damn hot in Texas to go running in the summer so I started coming here.”
Plausible.
He tells me that a coach from a league team saw him and started teaching him how to play hockey and he joined the team since the season didn’t conflict with football.
As he continues, he skates backward again like the story is stitched together by his muscles, the movements are easy and natural as he continues.
“So I started playing on his U16 team. That means under sixteen years of age.”
I roll my eyes, but he doesn’t know that I know that.
“Anyway, it didn’t take much and I was addicted to the early practices before sunrise and late nights at the freezing rink.
Hockey and football overlapped some but I was always able to work it out and by my senior year, my high school added a team and I was good enough to earn a scholarship to the University of Michigan. ”
My mouth drops open. The Parker I know—the one I’ve been analyzing, arguing with, tutoring, and trying to coach a wide receiver with the kind of hands that should never fail him.
This may change what’s going on with said hands.
I bite my bottom lip before I ask, “So how does someone with a Michigan hockey scholarship, one of the most notorious hockey schools in America, end up playing football for our university?”
Parker’s mouth curves into a flicker of a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He looks away toward the painted boards sponsored by local companies as we glide past them.
In a hushed tone, he says, “That is a long story for another time.”
I let it go because I know what’s coming next and it does.
“How about you? Are you an ice skater? Ice dance?”
“I played hockey too.”
“Where?”
“None of your business.”
“You’re hiding something Doc.”
“I’m not your doctor. And I’m not hiding anything.”
“Then why did you flinch when I grabbed you?”
“It’s normal.”
“No, it’s not. I was a lifeguard for three summers and I have eleven saves. Every single person, male or female, was happy I grabbed them.”
“Parker.”
“Yes?”
“I get to say who touches my body.”
He shakes his hair and damn I want to run my fingers through it. Grab it while he’s—
Stop.
“Fair enough.” He gestures with his chin. “So where’d you play?”
“Europe.” He doesn’t need to know every detail. Give him just enough to satisfy him.
“Oh, wow. What position?”
“Wing.”
His grin builds, inching wider across his face, deliberate and unhurried, until his dimples carve deep into his cheeks. I swear he’s fully aware of the weapon he just wielded. Who needs a sword when he has that smile?
“Same.”
Of course. “Figures,” I mumble under my breath as I skate into the center ice so he can’t hear.
He glides closer again, stopping abruptly, sending a spray of ice. “You know what’s weird?” he asks.
“What?”
“This is the most relaxed I’ve ever seen you. Not in class. Not when tutoring. Not at the pizza parlor. Not at the bar. Not at your office.”
I fold my lips over my teeth, rolling over what to say in my mind. “That’s because ice doesn’t ask questions.”
“But people do,” he says like he understands.
“Yes.”
“And you hate answering them.”
“That’s correct.”
We skate around one more time before he says, “Yet you ask questions of others for a living, huh. I don’t know what to make of that.”
“Don’t worry your pretty big head about it.”
You think I’m pretty?” he teases.
I wave him off and turn away from those disarming dimples.
He shows off skating fast and hard. “Your turn,” he yells from the other end. When I get to him he says, “What European league did you play in and why did you quit?”
My stomach tightens and bile rushes up my throat. “I was a kid, but that’s a story for another day.”
He surveys my face carefully.
“You’re full of secrets, aren’t you, Annika?”
I push off and skate past him.
“It’s Anna.”
He calls after me, “Pretty sure it’s Annika.”
Keep skating.
Because the last thing I need is Parker O’Ryan asking questions about the name I buried.
Or the country that still remembers it.