Chapter Nine
Monroe
My skates slice through the ice, one foot after the other. I’m slow, leisurely, trying to feel out the blades on my feet. It’s incredible how muscle memory works. If I shut down the part of my brain that is screaming at me to relive my fall, for a second it’s like I never even left the ice at all.
Inhale. Exhale.
My stint in therapy was brief, but the breathing techniques are tattooed into my subconscious.
I’m trying not to feel Rhodes’ gaze on me while I skate. His navy-blue eyes are boring into the back of my head, and I know if I turn around I’d find him there, arms crossed.
I haven’t made a full lap yet and the panic is simmering, waiting. It’s a living thing coiled tight in my chest, sitting heavy behind my ribs, whispering, This isn’t safe. This isn’t safe. This isn’t safe.
Another inhale. Another exhale. I can see my breath in the crisp air of the arena.
When I finally work up the courage to face Rhodes, I’m absolutely correct—deep, impossibly blue eyes, arms crossed, stationary in the center of the ice. There is caution in his gaze, but also a hint of…pride? His hands are fisted, like he’s trying to keep himself from stepping in if I need him.
I don’t feel like unpacking that right now.
I push forward, picking up speed. The first turn approaches and I sail through the curve. The reality of being back on the ice threatens to overwhelm every one of my senses.
The cold air. The overhead lights. The whoosh of my blades. The reflection of my body in the plastic on the rink’s edge. I watch myself, mirrored back at me.
The reflected image on the ice knocks the wind out of me.
I used to know that girl.
Skating was like breathing. From the moment I could walk, I was on skates—on the ice with my dad during his hockey practices, in the rink for my own figure-skating sessions. For hours every day, training, skating, learning. Practicing tricks I knew other girls couldn’t do.
Skating was never just a hobby for me. If I was going to skate, I was going to be the best. When I was a kid, I’d cut Olympic rings out of magazines and taped them to my bedroom wall.
And it wasn’t just some bullshit pipe dream. I had real, actual talent and I had gotten so close.
My mom had watched from the sidelines, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, cataloging every mistake so I could be better. She’d drilled perfection into my very bones. Monroe Abrams was either the best, or she was nothing. You can imagine why the loss of my success was so crippling to the both of us.
She managed everything—coaches, choreography, music, endorsements, sponsorships. She was my manager far above being my mother. It was her full-time job and she relished it. My success was her success. So when my ankle broke, and I couldn’t be that success anymore?
Elaine took it almost harder than I did. She sobbed in the room when they told me I’d never skate at a competitive level again. I had to comfort her in the wake of the most devastating news of my entire life.
The second my spot on the Nationals team was pulled—the moment the Olympic dream officially died—she was gone. She hasn’t checked in once.
I inhale sharply as my chest locks up. Thoughts of my injury and my mom and my mess of a life flood my brain, and the breathing technique is rendered useless. I jerk to a stop, my skates screeching against the ice, but the panic doesn’t stop with me. It slams into me at full fucking force.
My clothes are too tight. I’m too hot.
I can’t breathe.
I rip at my sweatshirt, clawing at the fabric.
“Get it off.” The words rasp out of my throat, barely there, just a hoarse whisper.
“Get it off—” My voice rises, desperate, panicked. The material is stuck. Twisting. Tight around my throat.
My blood is loud, rushing in my ears, and I squeeze my eyes shut to stop my tunneling vision.
“Monroe?” Rhodes’ voice is distant.
“Get it off!” I hear myself screaming as if I’m floating. I yank harder at the hem of my shirt and feel hands on my arms, lifting it over my head, tugging the sweatshirt up. My sports bra is soaked with sweat.
I drop to the ice, on all fours, then turn flat on my back. The ceiling spins. The fluorescent lights stab through my skull even though my eyes are shut.
My arm slams over my face. Block it out. Block it all out.
More inhaling, more exhaling.
I’m aware of a soft weight on the top of my head, gently stroking my hair.
After what feels like an eternity, my heart rate begins to slow and the panic starts to retreat. A shadow flickers in the side of my vision, blinking out some of the lights.
Rhodes.
I peek open one eye at him. He doesn’t say anything. He’s down on the ice with me, with his legs crossed.
“Well, that was fun,” he murmurs softly, pulling his hands back into his lap and tilting his head at me. “Need me to count to ten while you breathe?”
“Fuck you,” I grit out, closing my eyes again. I am aware I’m lashing out, but that’s what happens when I’m embarrassed. And right now, I’m really fucking embarrassed.
Rhodes just chuckles. “Maybe later, Abrams.” My stomach does a flip at his insinuation. I can hear the smile in his voice, and I reach over to smack him in the leg. If only he wasn’t so ridiculously pretty.
With a groan, I push myself up to a sitting position. My body has cooled down now, and the ice is too cold against my back.
Rhodes is leaning back on his palms, smirking. The sweatshirt he peeled off my body is sitting in his lap. “Welcome back.” He nods. I let out a heavy exhale. “You were so close,” he says. “But you still gotta finish the lap.”
I snap my eyes to him. He can’t be serious.
“What the hell, Rhodes?” I say, incredulous. “I skated. I got on the ice. I had a pa—” I don’t finish the words, just gesture to the space around me, letting him fill in the gap for himself.
“You did. Good job on the half lap. But that wasn’t the deal.” He shrugs. It’s infuriating. “The deal was that you finish the lap, no exceptions, or I call Elsie and trade you in for Natalie.”
“I did the lap, you dick!”
He just shakes his head, pushing himself up to stand, dusting ice off his hands.
“Nope. You got,” he tracks the rest of the rink with his eyes, “three-fourths of the way done, maybe.”
He holds his hand out to help me back up. I groan loudly and take it reluctantly, shifting my weight back onto my blades. His fingers fold around mine, dwarfing my hand. I never noticed just how big his hands were before.
I stare at our fingers for a moment before pulling mine away. His lips twitch with amusement.
He’s still holding my sweatshirt, so I yank it back, pulling it on. The glare I level at Rhodes is lethal, but he isn’t even fazed. He just stands there on the ice, arms crossed, an infuriating grin on his face.
I push off my skates, determination seeping through my body, and whoosh forward. “Here’s the rest of your lap, McKnight,” I snarl at him, flipping him off with both hands.
He barks a laugh and slow claps. “There she is.” He tracks my movement as I skate past him, completing my loop.
“Asshole,” I seethe. When I get to the doorway, I stomp off the ice.
I ignore Rhodes as I rip my skates off, shove them in my bag, and continue my temper tantrum all the way to my car.
I’m pissed at him for pushing me tonight. I’m pissed at Elsie for forcing me into the clinic. I’m pissed at my life just in general.
But I have to admit, a tiny part of me is relishing the feeling of having been back on the ice, panic attack aside—like the part of me that’s been missing for the last year might not be gone forever. Like maybe I could get part of that girl back.