Chapter 7 Iris
IRIS
You know how you meet some people and they just seem inevitable?
Like a force of gravity you can’t quite escape no matter how hard you try?
That’s Collin. I’ve spent weeks trying to convince myself this is just another performance, just another partner.
But watching him nail another complicated lift sequence, my body instinctively trusting his grip, knowing he won’t let me fall, I’m starting to realize I might be in trouble.
He’s a quick study, picking up choreography faster than any partner I’ve worked with.
There’s this raw strength to him that makes even our riskiest moves feel secure.
And the way he watches me when we skate, like he’s memorizing every movement, every breath. It’s intoxicating.
The setting sun slants through the high windows, turning the ice to molten gold.
My eyes keep drifting to the clock mounted above the bleachers, each tick bringing Owen’s arrival closer.
The thought sends a familiar flutter of anxiety through my chest, making my movements just a fraction too stiff as Collin guides me through another lift.
“You’re thinking too much,” Collin says, his breath warm against my ear as we glide into position.
His hands settle at my waist, steady and sure.
“I can practically hear the gears turning.” I try to focus on the present moment.
Cool air against my flushed skin, the solid warmth of his grip, the way our breaths have synced after hours of practice.
I roll my eyes, though he can’t see it from this angle.
“I think exactly the right amount, thank you.” We pivot, facing each other again. Brown eyes scan me intently.
“And what exactly are you thinking about?” He pulls me closer than necessary for our next move, his voice dropping to that low timbre that makes my stomach flip. “Any thoughts about me?” I tilt my head back, meeting his gaze with a coy smile that surprises even me.
“Oh, sure. I think about you a lot actually.” I let my voice go honeyed and sweet.
“And when I do, I touch myself.” His rhythm falters for just a moment, eyes snapping to mine.
It’s only the second time I’ve ever seen Collin King miss a beat.
His eyes darken, that infamous smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.
“Oh yeah, Pretty Girl?” I wait until he’s pulled me back against his chest.
“Yeah.” My voice dry as winter air. “I rub my temples. Because you give me headaches.” I spin out of his hold, making sure my ponytail catches him right in the face. His startled laugh echoes off the rafters, rich and genuine in a way that makes my chest feel too tight.
“Now that was just cruel,” he says, shaking his head.
The overhead lights catch in his hair, turning the dark brown to copper.
He’s still chuckling as he runs a hand through it, a few strands fall across his forehead, and my fingers itch with the inexplicable urge to brush them back.
Instead, I focus on fixing my own hair, hoping the burn in my cheeks can be blamed on exertion.
When I glance back at him, he’s watching me with that look again.
The one that makes me feel like I’m standing in a spotlight, like there’s nowhere to hide.
Around us, blades scrape against ice as the other pairs wind down their sessions. Sasha and Derek glide toward the exit, her blonde ponytail swishing as she laughs at something he whispers. Logan helps Sophia gather scattered water bottles by the boards.
"You two really don't know when to quit, do you?" Brock, skates past, chest heaving, that familiar grin creasing his face. There's something genuine about him that I've always appreciated. His partner, trailing behind him with barely a hair out of place, is another story entirely.
"Some of us are perfectionists, Brock," Vivien says, those sharp blue eyes finding Collin. She executes a small turn, her fitted practice dress hugging every curve. "Though I have to say, Collin, your stamina is impressive." I suppress the urge to gag. Collin chuckles, still breathless.
"Just trying to keep up with, Iris." That dimpled grin appears, but his eyes stay locked on mine instead of following Vivien's retreat toward the boards.
"Well," Her voice carries a hint of something sharper as she glides backward, "don't wear yourselves out completely.” She spins gracefully and skates away, leaving us alone on the ice.
The moment she's gone, Collin's expression shifts.
The polite smile fades, replaced by something more focused, more intense.
He skates closer, close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes.
“Again?” he asks, chest heaving slightly as he extends his hand.
I should call it a day. We’ve been at this for hours, and my muscles are screaming for rest. But there’s something addictive about the way we move together.
Something that makes me want to push just a little further, stay just a little longer.
“Again,” I agree, taking his hand. Our movements flow together seamlessly now, a product of endless hours of practice.
When we finish the sequence, my legs feel like Jell-O as I drop onto the bench on the other side of the rink.
I check my phone, heart sinking at the time. Owen’s already texted. Twice.
Owen: Where the hell are you?
Owen: Still waiting.
The familiar anxiety creeps in, that suffocating feeling of being perpetually wrong, perpetually late, perpetually disappointing.
It’s amazing how he can still do this to me.
Reduce me to that uncertain twenty-two-year-old he first met with just a few words.
My hands shake as I shove the phone into my bag, the zipper catching on my sleeve in my haste.
“I gotta to go,” I manage, trying to keep my voice steady as I gather my things.
A skate guard slips from my fingers, skittering across the floor.
The sound impossibly loud in the sudden tension I’ve created.
Collin watches me from where he leans against the boards, water bottle halfway to his lips.
There’s something careful in his expression, like he’s reading more in my movements than I want him to see.
“Tomorrow?” he asks, his casual tone belied by the way his eyes track my jerky movements.
“Same time,” I confirm, shouldering my bag, eyes darting to the clock as I rush out of the arena. Getting Owen to agree to a drop off at the rink instead of his house was a week-long battle I’m not eager to repeat.
October evening air hits my face as I push through the doors, carrying with it the sharp bite of approaching winter.
Owen’s silver Audi idles near the entrance, exactly where I knew it would be.
Through the windshield, I catch a glimpse of Jamie’s face pressed against the glass, his breath fogging the window as he waves enthusiastically.
At least someone’s happy to see me. The sight of his gap-toothed grin loosens something in my chest, lets me breathe a little easier.
The car door flies open and Jamie bursts out, running toward me.
“Mama!” I catch him in a hug, breathing in the familiar scent of his shampoo, when Owen’s voice slices through the moment.
“You’re late.” A year free from him and that tone still has the power to make me feel small, to turn my bones to chalk.
“Practice ran over,” I say, straightening up as Owen approaches, hands shoved in his pockets. My spine stiffens automatically.
“Right,” he says, with the laugh that used to make everything I loved feel small and foolish.
“Practice. You know, when Jamie said you were doing this, I thought it was a joke.” Jamie grins up at his father, swinging our joined hands, completely missing the barb hidden in the warmth of his father’s tone.
I taste acid on my tongue, stomach hollowing.
I breathe sharply through my nose, counting backward from ten like my therapist taught me.
“Owen—” The creak of the rink doors cuts me off. His eyes shift past my shoulder, expression darkening into something possessive that he lost the right to feel long ago. My pulse quickens, a trapped-animal feeling. The parking lot suddenly feels too exposed, too open.
“Huh,” Owen says, lips curling into what Jamie probably sees as a playful smile. To me, it’s all teeth. “So this is why we’re waiting? Extra time with your new boyfriend?”
“He’s not my—” The words catch in my throat, old habits of explaining myself rising up before I can stop them. I hate how easily he can make me feel like I need to justify every choice, every moment, every breath.
“Sure, he’s not.” His disgust is obvious as his cold eyes slide back over me, taking in my practice clothes with the same dismissive look he used to give my costumes. I grip Jamie’s shoulder a little tighter, but footsteps approach behind us, bringing with them the faint scent of pine and ice.
“Iris! Glad I caught you,” Collin calls out, half-jogging over. His shirt clings slightly to his shoulders, still damp from our session. “Just wanted to make sure we’re still on for tomorrow?”
“Yeah, like we just...” I turn, momentarily confused since we’d confirmed this minutes ago, when I catch the deliberate way he positions himself.
His shoulder angles slightly between Owen and me as he steps closer, a casual movement that isn’t casual at all.
Realization hits: He saw something in Owen that he didn’t like.
The thought sends an odd mix of gratitude and embarrassment through me, heat creeping up my neck.
“Oh, sorry man.” Collin cocks his head in Owen’s direction, his hand extended. “Collin King.” The gesture feels less like an introduction and more like a challenge. Owen stares at the offered hand for a beat too long before giving it a curt shake, his other hand still buried in his pocket.
“Owen Matthews, Pediatrician. Iris’s husband.” The words fall between us like stones, heavy with implied ownership.