Chapter 5 Collin #2
“Oh man, wait till I tell the guys you went full caveman over this girl.” He ducks out of the doorway just as my shampoo bottle goes flying toward his head, his delighted cackling bouncing off the walls as he disappears down the hall.
Nick stays behind, and something tightens in my chest at the look on his face.
Same one he gave me after that disastrous press conference last month.
“Heard Marcus and Coach talking,” he says, adjusting his bag strap.
“About your situation.” I busy myself with my clothes, tugging my sweatpants up and pulling my shirt over my head.
Nick’s got that whole life-figured-out thing going for him—beautiful wife, two little girls who adore him.
The kind of life that seems entirely out of my orbit.
“Just...” He sighs. “Don’t get weak for a pretty face.
I’m sure whoever this girl is, she’s gorgeous.
But you’ve got to think about the bigger picture.
About who you want to be remembered as.”
“I hear you.” He shifts his weight.
“Career’s worth more than—” He breaks off. “You know.” I do know. I think about the unread messages on my phone, the way her voice is stuck in my head. It’s just because I can’t have her. Has to be. That’s the only answer that makes sense. Except that's not entirely true, is it?
It's not just that I can't have her—it's that she doesn't seem to want to be had.
By anyone. She's not playing games or trying to make me chase her.
She's just... existing in her own world, completely unbothered by mine.
And for some reason, that makes me want to be worth her attention instead of just expecting it.
“Yeah,” I say, because what else is there to say? Nick nods once, like that settles it.
“See you tomorrow.” He turns to go, then pauses. “Try not to break anything important on TV.” I flip him off, but I’m smiling as he leaves. The smile fades as I stare at my reflection in the steamed-up mirror. Who do I want to be remembered as? That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?
The familiar rink looks alien tonight. They’ve transformed my home ice into something out of a dream, with dramatic lighting and fog rolling across the surface like something alive.
Giant screens hang from the rafters, displaying close-ups of the current pair gliding across the ice.
The stands are packed, the buzz of the crowd a constant undercurrent beneath the music.
My team’s probably just landing in Chicago right now, and part of me is pathetically grateful they won’t see this live.
Though I’m sure Hayes will end up recording it in the hotel room just so they can watch it back later.
I tug at the collar of my black shirt for the hundredth time.
Everything they’ve put me in is black and sleek and a hell of a lot tighter than I’m used to.
The pants especially. Cruel and unusual punishment, that’s exactly what this is, but I can’t focus on any of that because Iris is standing next to me in this light blue number that sparkles every time she moves.
The costume’s got these long sleeves that tie at her fingertips, and the skirt’s cut high on the sides in a way that’s doing absolutely nothing to help me breathe normally.
“Stop fidgeting,” she murmurs without looking at me, eyes fixed on the couple currently performing. Her own hands are clasped so tightly in front of her that her knuckles are white.
“I’m not fidgeting.” I immediately stop tugging at my collar. “I’m... adjusting.”
“Right.” There’s the tiniest hint of amusement in her voice, but it’s buried under layers of nerves. “You look like you’re about to crawl out of your skin.”
“Says the woman who’s been checking the exit signs every thirty seconds.” She stiffens slightly.
“I have not.”
“Emergency exit by the Zamboni entrance, fire exit to the left, and the main doors we came through.” I lean closer, lowering my voice. “Want me to keep going?” For a second, I think she might actually smile. Instead, she just shakes her head.
“I just don’t want to look stupid out there.”
“You’re an Olympic medalist. Didn’t think that’d be high on your list of fears.” Something shutters behind her eyes.
“That was different. That was...” She trails off, her jaw tightening. “That was a long time ago.”
“Hey.” I wait until she looks at me. “If anyone’s gonna look stupid out there tonight, it’s gonna be me. I’m the one who can barely stay upright.”
“You’re getting better,” she says automatically, the lines between her brows softening, then catches herself like she wasn’t supposed to admit that.
“Yeah? You think so?” She turns back to the ice quickly.
“Don’t let it go to your head.” I catch the flush creeping up her neck, and something warm spreads through my chest.
The wait is excruciating. We watch three more pairs take the ice.
Carter and Sarah go first, and somehow Carter—a guy who's spent his entire career body-checking people into the boards—manages to look almost graceful out there. Logan and Sophia follow, he stumbles over each turn and there’s almost no chemistry between them.
Both of them looking uncomfortable if not a bit awkward.
Sasha and Derek close out the group before us.
Derek's struggling to keep up—I can see him counting beats under his breath—but Sasha makes up for it with pure showmanship.
She's got him throwing her around like a rag doll, and somehow they make it work.
The crowd eats it up, and I feel my stomach drop another notch.
Each routine blends into the next as I try not to count down the minutes until our turn.
Try not to think about all the ways this could go wrong.
Iris shifts beside me, and I catch a whiff of whatever perfume she’s wearing.
It’s sweet but subtle, like vanilla and something else I can’t place, and fuck me I’m doing it again.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. Three months of figure skating hell, sure.
Public humiliation, fine. But catching feelings for this girl?
That wasn’t part of the deal. I’m supposed to be focusing on redemption, on fixing my image, on proving to everyone that I’m not just some pretty boy who likes to party.
Instead, I’m standing here like an idiot, crushing on a girl who probably doesn’t have my number saved and only answers my texts with one-word responses. When she answers at all.
The fog machines kick up another notch as the spotlights start their dramatic sweep.
Iris reaches for my hand—it’s part of our entrance, we’ve practiced it a hundred times this week—but my brain short-circuits anyway.
Her fingers are cold against mine, delicate bones and calluses from years on the ice.
Her small hand curls into my much larger one like it was made to fit there.
Looking at her, I ask myself the same question I’ve been asking myself the last few days—Who do I want to be remembered as?
The answer’s dangerously simple: someone worth remembering.
Someone she thinks is worth remembering.
Not the guy from the tabloid headlines or the one who let his team down.
Not even the star player who scores game-winning goals.
Just... someone better. Someone who could be worthy of her attention.
Which is completely insane because I’ve known her for exactly seven days, four hours, and—I glance at the clock on the wall—seventeen minutes. Not that I’m counting.
She turns to me, the smallest of smiles playing at her lips. “Nervous?” I catch the slight waver in her voice, the tiny tell that she’s just as scared as I am, and warmth spreads through my chest. I squeeze her hand gently, flashing her my most confident grin.
“Not a chance.” Shit. This is going to be a problem.