Chapter 4 Iris
IRIS
I’ve survived a lot of things in my twenty-six years: a broken wrist at nationals, my mother’s daily lectures about everything she felt I was doing wrong, not to mention my soul-crushing relationship with Owen. But this? This might actually kill me.
The empty rink stretches out before me, bathed in harsh fluorescent lights.
The practice rink much less beautiful than the big arena where we’d be filming.
Most of the other contestants were home by now, enjoying their dinner or winding down for the night.
But not me. No, I was here for evening practice with Collin freaking King.
Of all the hockey players in the NHL, they paired me with him.
The guy was a notorious womanizer. A playboy.
A Flirt. And would no doubt be a pain in my ass.
“I can’t believe you.” I yank my laces tight, glaring up at Diane. She leans against the barrier, her expression carefully innocent. Over-plucked eyebrows raised in my direction as she fluffs her bangs.
“Oh, stop it.” Diane waves her hand dismissively, a dozen bangles jingling with the movement. “He’s not nearly as bad as those gossip rags make him out to be. You saw him last night—perfectly charming.”
“The media loves him.” I mimick her tone, twisting my hair into a secure bun.
A strand escapes immediately, and I tuck it behind my ear with a huff.
God, those dark eyes and that stupid dimple that appears when he smiles.
The same smile that graced countless magazine covers.
He was handsome and he knew it. I hated that in a man.
“We might as well forfeit now. You honestly think he’s going to take any of this seriously?
He probably thinks this whole show is a joke. ”
“Oh please.” Diane rolls her eyes, patting my shoulder. “Save the dramatics for the performance.” She glances up, grinning as Collin walks through the doors.” Besides, he might surprise you.” My lips press into a thin line.
“Mmm doubtful.” I glance up as Collin strides across the lobby. His team jacket stretched across broad shoulders, bag slung over his arm.
“Evening, ladies,” his voice carries easily across the rink.
“Hi,” I mumble, not bothering to hide my lack of enthusiasm.
I tug my wrap tighter around my waist, checking that the knot is secure before standing and pulling off my guards.
The ice welcomes me as I glide out, cutting clean lines across the fresh surface.
I push off into a series of crossovers, letting muscle memory take over as I trace the familiar pattern around the rink.
The distinctive scratch of blades on ice behind me makes my shoulders tense.
I don’t need to look to know who it is—Collin had apparently decided warm-ups were a team activity.
I pick up my pace, determined to ignore him.
“You know.” His voice is entirely too close behind me.
“Most people start with a ‘good evening’ before trying to pretend their partner doesn’t exist.” I keep my eyes fixed ahead, focusing on my edges.
Clean. Precise. Controlled. Everything I’m sure he isn’t.
To my annoyance, he matches my movements with surprising grace, falling into step beside me.
No awkward stumbling, no tripping over toe picks like most hockey players.
Just smooth, confident strokes. I spin around abruptly, coming to a sharp stop that sends a spray of ice toward his skates.
To his credit, he manages to avoid falling—mostly.
His arms windmill before he catches his balance, and I can’t help the spark of satisfaction at catching him off guard.
“How are you doing that?” The words burst out before I can stop them. His eyebrows shoot up, a grin spreading across his face.
“She speaks!”
“The skating,” I clarify, brushing back another rebellious strand of hair “How are you not falling on your face?” His eyes follow the movement, that intense dark gaze making my stomach do an unwelcome flip.
No. Absolutely not. I know better than to fall for that carefully crafted charm.
Men like him—like Owen—they turn looking at you into an art form, make you feel like you’re the only person in the room, until suddenly you are rearranging your whole life around their attention.
He shrugs, that irritating dimple making another appearance.
“What can I say? Natural talent. Some of us are just blessed with raw athletic ability.” I roll my eyes so hard it almost hurts, pushing off toward center ice.
The sooner we get through this, the sooner I can go home and forget about his stupid, smug, annoyingly handsome face.
Taking my position, I cross my arms tightly over my chest, waiting for Diane to start practice.
Instead of standing still like a normal person, Collin begins circling me in wide, lazy loops, like some over-sized bird of prey.
Who apparently has no concept of personal space or professional boundaries.
“You know,” he drawls, “the whole ignoring-your-partner thing might make our lifts a bit tricky. Just saying.” I stare resolutely ahead, watching Diane flip through her notes by the boards.
“I mean, timing is pretty crucial.” Another loop.
“Communication too.” He’s closer now. “Eye contact, generally helpful.” My jaw clenches.
“Also,” he muses, still circling, “I think you’d like me if you got to know me. ”
“Not likely,” I mutter. He stops skating, and I can hear the frown in his voice.
“Why not?” A pause. “You like chicks?” My mouth drops open as I whirl to face him, heat flooding my cheeks.
“What? No!” His face splits into a triumphant grin, entirely too close for comfort.
“Made you look.” Damn it. My eyes narrow as Diane skates out to join us, clipboard in hand. Collin’s shoulder brushes against mine, and I can practically feel the satisfaction radiating off him.
This was exactly what he wanted. A reaction.
Attention. And I’d given it to him. Perfect.
Diane taps her pen against her clipboard.
“Alright, before we get into any choreography, let’s see what we’re working with.
” She eyes Collin appraisingly. “Basic strength assessment first.” My stomach drops.
I know that look. “Nothing fancy,” Diane continues, confirming my fears.
“Just a simple press lift. Straight up, hold for three counts, straight down.”
“That’s it?” Collin asks. “Here I was hoping for something more challenging.” I keep my eyes fixed firmly on Diane, ignoring the way he moves closer. The ice suddenly very slippery beneath my blades, despite years of experience telling me otherwise.
“Iris?” Diane prompts. “Center position.” Right.
Professional. I can do professional. I’ve done dozens of lifts with dozens of partners.
This is no different. Collin moves to stand in front of me, and I force myself to meet his eyes as he settles his hands on my waist. Everything in me goes still.
His palms are warm through the thin material of my practice clothes, his grip firm but gentle as he faces me. Careful.
“Ready?” he asks softly, all traces of teasing gone from his voice.
I manage a short nod, not trusting myself to speak.
Just a lift. Simple. Basic. Completely standard procedure.
Suddenly I’m airborne. He makes it look effortless, like I weigh nothing at all.
My hands instinctively find his shoulders for balance, and damn.
Solid muscle beneath my fingers. Hockey training has obviously done him well. Very well.
“Good height,” Diane calls out. “Hold it...” Three seconds stretches into an eternity.
I can feel the steady strength in his grip, the subtle adjustments he makes to keep me perfectly balanced.
The warmth of his hands seems to seep through my entire body, making me acutely aware of how long it’s been since I’ve allowed anyone this close.
“And down.” The descent is as smooth as the lift, his hands staying firmly on my waist until my blades are securely on the ice.
I step back quickly, missing the warmth immediately.
“Not bad,” Diane says, making notes on her clipboard. “Not bad at all.”
I risk a glance at Collin then, immediately regretting it when I find him already looking at me. The left side of his mouth lifting higher than the right.
“Told you,” he says quietly. “Natural talent.” I turn away, pretending to adjust my wrap. My waist still tingles where his hands had been, and I silently add ‘traitorous nerve endings’ to the list of things I needed to have a stern talk with myself about later.
“Alright.” Diane claps her hands together.
“Basic elements. I need to see how you move together before we get to the big stuff.” She gestures for us to spread out.
“Let’s start with some synchronized spirals.
” I push off into position, extending my free leg behind me.
To my continued annoyance, Collin matches my movement with that same natural grace.
“Higher,” Diane calls out to him. “Get that free leg up, Collin. You need to match her height.”
“Any higher and it’s going to detach,” he mutters, wobbling as he tries to lift his leg. His massive frame isn’t doing him any favors. For all his natural skating ability, his center of gravity is practically in another zip code.
“Still not high enough,” Diane insists. I bite back a smile as he teeters again, his arms windmilling slightly.
Mr. Natural Talent wasn’t looking quite so smug now.
“Back crossovers now,” Diane directs. “Full rink, stay in sync.” The familiar rhythm of blades against ice helps steady my nerves.
Back crossover, cross behind, push... Collin falls into step beside me, his longer stride forcing me to extend my own.
“You’re rushing,” I find myself saying, the coach in me slipping out before I can stop it.