Offside At The Blue Line

1. Chapter 1

Mara

The music is perfect.

Tessa's been fighting this combination for three weeks. The double axel into the layback spin. Right now, for the first time, her body stops fighting and just moves. I hold my breath at the boards. Don't think. Don't count. Just feel it.

She lands clean.

"Yes." I exhale. "That's it. That's exactly it."

Tessa grins across the ice, cheeks flushed, chest heaving. She's sixteen and a natural and she has no idea how good she actually is. That's the part I'm most afraid of losing.

"Again?" she calls.

"Again."

I tap my clipboard against the boards and she glides back to her starting position. The rink is ours for another forty minutes. Team practice ended a half-hour ago. This is my favorite part of the day. Just the ice, the music, and a kid who's starting to believe in her self.

I hit play on my phone.

The first eight counts of her program fill the arena. Tessa pushes off.

And then a puck hits the boards ten feet from Tessa’s head so hard the sound cracks like a gunshot.

I spin around.

Tessa stumbles on her approach, one blade catching wrong, and she goes down hard on her hip. Not injured. I can tell from the way she rolls. But shaken. The music keeps playing like nothing happened.

I look toward the far end of the ice.

There's a man at the blue line.

Tall. Dark hair under a helmet he didn't bother to strap. Shoulders that belong on someone who gets paid to use them as weapons. He's not even looking at us. He's skating a slow circle, stick down, like he owns the building and the rest of us are guests who overstayed.

I know who he is.

The whole city knows who he is.

Dane Kincaid. Traded to St. Louis two days ago in a deal he didn’t ask for.

Twelve seasons in the league, two suspensions for on-ice incidents, and a reputation for being exactly as difficult as his stats are impressive.

I help Tessa up without taking my eyes off him.

"You okay?"

"Fine." She brushes ice off her leggings. "Who is that?"

"Nobody you need to worry about.

I want to skate toward him before I think better of it. My pulse kicks up. My face doesn't follow. I learned that from my father. Never let them see it.

He still hasn't looked at me.

"Hey."

Nothing.

"Hey." Louder this time.

He stops skating. Turns his head. And the look he gives me is so flat and so unimpressed that I almost stop.

Almost.

"This is a private lesson." I keep my voice level. "Scheduled. On the rink calendar. Your practice ended at four."

He looks at the clock on the scoreboard. Back at me. "It's four-fifteen."

"Then you're fifteen minutes late leaving."

"I'm doing extra reps."

"Not on this ice, you're not. I have a student."

He skates a slow half-circle, retrieves the puck from the boards, and tucks it into his glove. No apology. No acknowledgment that his shot nearly took out a sixteen-year-old.

"She should be paying attention to her edges," he says. "Not the boards."

I stare at him.

"Excuse me?"

"If a stray puck throws her off, her focus is wrong." He shrugs, one shoulder. "Not my problem."

The nerve is so enormous I almost have to admire it.

"You put a puck into the boards ten feet from a kid's head during a private lesson that you knew was scheduled.

" I'm not yelling. Yelling gives people too much.

"That's a safety issue. I don't care how many seasons you've played or what your contract says.

This is my rink from four to six on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

If you're still on the ice during my time, I'll have you removed. "

He goes still.

"Your rink." His voice is very quiet.

"My time on it. Yes."

He looks at me for a long moment. Not dismissive anymore. Something harder. Measuring.

"And who," he says, "are you?"

Before I can answer, Jimmy Sullivan's, the Teams Trainer who I’ve been friends with for years, voice carries from the tunnel behind me.

"Kincaid! Coach is looking for you. And hey, Mara, sorry, I thought he was done."

I watch my name land on Dane Kincaid. Watch him look at Jimmy, then look at me, then put it together. His eyes go sharp for one second. Then flat.

"Mara Ellison?" His voice gives away nothing.

"Yes."

He looks at me for another beat. Then he skates toward the exit without a word. Stick over his shoulder. Completely unbothered, like the conversation meant nothing.

I stand in the middle of the ice and breathe.

Behind me, Tessa calls out, "Is he gone?"

"He's gone."

"He's really tall."

"Tessa. Positions."

I hear her laugh, blades scraping back into place. I turn around and skate back to my end of the rink, keeping my spine straight, keeping my pace even. My hands are steady. My face is neutral.

I'm fine.

Completely fine.

Except I can't slow my breathing down, and I'm not sure why, maybe just a little angry.

I run Tessa through the combination four more times before I call it. The last run is her best one. Loose in the shoulders, clean in the landing, a smile at the end that's real instead of performed. I write three notes on my clipboard. Tell her to ice her hip tonight.

Her mom is waiting by the lobby doors. Julie Vale in full performance-parent mode. Pastel athleisure, a thermos, a look on her face like she's calculating the value of every minute of ice time.

"How was she?" Julie asks me, not Tessa.

"She had a breakthrough on the axel combo." I smile at Tessa, not her mother. "She worked hard."

"The regional qualifier is in nine weeks."

"I know."

"She needs more private time. Can we add Saturdays?"

Tessa's face goes carefully blank. I notice.

"Let's see how this week goes," I say. "Tessa's body needs recovery time, not just volume."

Julie's smile doesn't move. "Of course."

I watch them go. Tessa doesn't look back. I make another note.

I'm still standing there, boot bag over my shoulder, when I hear the side door from the tunnel open.

Dane Kincaid is back.

He's out of his gear now. Jeans, dark black jacket. Without the helmet and pads he looks like a different kind of trouble. Less armored, more deliberate. He stops when he sees me.

Neither of us speaks.

Then one of the assistant coaches down the hall yells out, "Coach Ellison's daughter." laughing about something, and the name carries.

I watch Dane's face.

He works through something fast. Recognition. Calculation. And then, very slowly, something that looks almost like he can’t believe who I am.

He turns to go.

Then he pauses.

One hand on the door. Head turning just enough that I can see his profile.

"So you're the reason," he says.

The door closes behind him.

I stand there in the empty lobby.

And I have no idea if that was an accusation or an apology.