Chapter 15 Collin
COLLIN
The dim lighting of the arena does nothing to calm my nerves.
If anything, the moody atmosphere only amplifies the anxiety coursing through my veins.
Where the hell is she? My phone feels like a lead weight in the pocket of these godforsaken pants.
Pants that Diane had apparently ordered straight from the children’s department, considering how they cling to every muscle like a second skin.
I shift my weight again, feeling the fabric strain across my thighs.
The shirt isn’t any better. One deep breath and I’ll probably send buttons flying into the judges’ faces.
“Sex appeal,” Diane said, ignoring my protests about circulation and the future of my lineage.
Easy for her to say, she wasn’t the one trying to land jumps in painted-on clothing.
Out on the ice, Kelly O’Reilly, the show’s host, is walking through Vivien and Brock’s journey with all the manufactured enthusiasm of a seasoned reality TV veteran.
Her voice echoes through the arena, mixing with the soft whir of the cooling system and the occasional murmur from the other contestants.
Diane materializes at my elbow for what has to be the fifth time in fifteen minutes.
“Still nothing?” She doesn’t wait for my head shake before checking her watch again, lips pressed into a thin line. Yeah, I got it. Iris was late. Really late.
My fingers itch to check my phone again, but I’ve already called three times.
The last thing I need is to cause an accident because she’s trying to answer while navigating rush hour traffic.
Still, the knot in my stomach tightens with each passing minute.
Two months of training, of learning to trust each other, of figuring out how to move as one on the ice—and now, when the competition was getting seriously fierce, we might have to forfeit.
And the really weird part? The thought actually pisses me off.
Well, shit. When did that happened? I catch myself mentally reviewing our biggest competition’s technical scores, calculating what we need to pull off to stay in the running, and have to laugh at myself.
Somewhere between making an ass of myself in practice and learning to catch Iris mid-spin, I’ve actually started caring about winning this thing.
Not only for the reputation repair or the excuse to spend time with Iris, though yeah, okay, those are still factors, but because I genuinely want that tacky trophy.
This week has been different, better. After everything she told me about Owen, the manipulation, the constant criticism, the way he’d systematically torn down her confidence over the years.
I’ve noticed a shift in how we move together.
No more hesitation before jumps, no split-second delay.
She just leaps, absolutely certain I’d be there.
And off the ice, she started letting her guard down, sharing pieces of herself I never thought I’d get to see when we first met.
She trusts me now, really trusts me, in a way that makes my chest ache if I think about it too long.
Which I try not to do. Often. Usually unsuccessfully.
The soft blue lights sweep across the ice in lazy circles, creating patterns that usually would be mesmerizing.
Now they make me feel sick. I uncross and recross my arms, the fabric of my shirt protesting the movement with an ominous stretch across my shoulders.
If I survive this performance without indecent exposure becoming part of our routine, it will be a miracle.
A thought gnaws at my brain, what if she had to drop Jamie off with Owen?
The kid usually stayed with Iris’s parents on performance nights when it was her custody week, but if something changed.
.. My stomach churns. The idea of her having to deal with that prick alone, today of all days, makes my hands clench into fists.
I know exactly how Owen operates, how he uses any opportunity to get under her skin, to shake her confidence right before a performance.
He’d done it enough times during their marriage, according to what Iris told me.
The lights dim as Vivien and Brock glide off the ice, the next couple taking their position in the moody blue glow I’ve gotten used to over these past weeks.
Twenty minutes until we were up. I drop onto the bench, checking my phone again.
Brock gives me a quick nod as he passes, heading toward their coach.
Vivien, still breathless from their performance, has other ideas.
The black sparkly costume she’s wearing is purposefully designed to catch attention, crystals cascading down her sides like falling stars.
Her dark hair is swept up in an elaborate style that emphasizes her sharp features, and those striking blue eyes of hers are fixed on me with laser focus.
“Those lifts of yours are looking pretty impressive lately.” She settles next to me on the bench, close enough that her knee brushes mine, sequins catching the light with every movement. The scent of her perfume, something cloying and floral, drifts between us.
“Thanks,” I say, keeping my eyes on my phone. “Having a good partner helps.”
“You’ve certainly learned a lot since you first stepped on the ice.” She smiles, all white teeth, as she slowly scans me from head to skates. “Bet you’ve got some interesting stories to tell.” I laugh politely, shifting away.
“Not as many as the tabloids would have you believe.”
“Oh?” Her hand finds my thigh, warm through the thin material of my practice pants.
“Maybe we could make some new stories. I’ve heard you’re fun after hours.
” Two months ago, I would have been all over this.
Vivien was exactly the kind of trouble I used to look for—beautiful, bold, and best of all, temporary.
But now my mind drifts to Iris. Gently, I take Vivien’s hand and move it back to her own lap.
“Sorry,” I grimace. “Not interested.” I didn’t turn Vivien down because of some “no scandal” rule.
I turned her down because every time I think about kissing someone, it’s Iris’s face I see.
Every time I imagine taking someone to dinner, it’s Iris’s voice I want to hear across the table.
Shit. I really like her. The kind of like that makes my chest tight and my palms sweat.
The kind of like I’ve been running from for most of my life.
I was so out of depth here. She blinks, clearly not used to rejection. Those ice-blue eyes narrow slightly.
“Seriously? Since when did you become so... boring?” I shrug, watching as she huffs away, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “waste of time.” Maybe I have become boring.
Or maybe, for the first time in my life, I’m interested in something real.
Huh. When exactly had I become a one-woman kind of guy?
Especially for a woman who I technically couldn’t and didn’t have yet. Fuck me.
Iris bursts down the locker room hallway like she’s been shot from a cannon, still wrestling with what looks like a garment bag.
The moment I see her, everything else fades away—the noise, Vivien’s sulking exit, my own jumbled thoughts.
My whole body lights up like someone has flipped a switch, warmth spreading through my chest. I can practically feel all the common sense leaving my body.
But honestly? I don’t care. She’s the only person in the room I want to look at.
The only one that matters. Hell, she could have been wearing a potato sack and I’d still be staring at her like she hangs the moon.
It’s only when she gets closer that I see the tightness in her shoulders, drawn up near her ears.
Those little lines between her brows telling me everything I need to know.
“Cutting it rather close, don’t we think?” Diane’s voice carries across the space. “Ten minutes until you’re on. You haven’t even started warming up.”
“I know, I know!” Iris juggles her bag, shaking it off her shoulder so it lands on the floor with a dull thud. “I got caught up dropping Jamie off at my mom’s house and—” Something in my chest loosened at her words. No Owen, thank God.
“Hey, Pretty Girl.” I flash her the dimpled smile I know she loves.
“Looks like you’re right on time to me.” The tension visibly melts from her shoulders.
I’m getting better at this—at reading her, at knowing exactly what to say to bring that real smile back.
She rolls her eyes, still talking a mile a minute about the traffic and her skates and how nervous she is.
But God, she’s so damn beautiful. I can barely hear a word she’s saying.
Her wild curls are pulled back into a bun, with these soft little pieces falling around her ears.
She leans down to mess with her skirt, squeezing my shoulder on the way.
Just that tiny touch and I’m wired, every nerve in my body standing at attention.
I feel like a dog with a damn bone. She peels off her jacket and my mouth goes dry.
Fuck. Make that two bones. I thought that first dress was beautiful, but this one.
.. God help me. It’s a deep emerald green that shimmers in the light, gauzy and tight in all the right places.
She turns and my fingers flex on the bench.
It’s backless. The sequin fabric dipping low and stopping just below her waist. Soft pale skin and cute little freckles that I want to—yeah.
Not going there. I shift on the bench, trying to get comfortable.
Stupid tights. One look and I’m completely screwed.
The moment we hit the ice, something shifts in her.
She moves through our tango routine like liquid fire, every step deliberate and sultry, every glance she throws my way making my pulse spike.
She spins into my chest for our final lift, trusting me completely to catch her, and I wonder if this is how she used to feel before life got complicated.
Before she learned to hold herself so carefully, so perfectly in check.
God, I hope so. I hope she remembers this feeling long after the music stops.
We hold our final pose, my hand splayed across her lower back, her leg hooked around my hip, both of us breathing hard.
The crowd’s roaring fades to white noise as I stare into those green eyes of hers.
There are these tiny flecks of gold near her pupils that you can only see up close.
Up this close. Her chest rises and falls against mine, and for a moment, it’s just us.
Just Iris. Just the way her eyes crinkle slightly at the corners when she meets my gaze, the way her fingers grip my shoulder.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” Kelly’s voice shatters the moment.
I help Iris straighten up, keeping my hand at the small of her back as reality crashes back in.
The audience, the competition, the cameras.
But my fingers linger against the sequins of her dress, not quite ready to let go.
“Let’s chat with America’s Sweethearts while our judges deliberate.
” She works the crowd as she skates over.
“That chemistry we witnessed was capital H-O-T hot! And rumor has it...” She pauses, eyes sparkling as she reaches us.
“It might not be just for the cameras anymore?” The audience erupts.
I glance down at Iris, catching those bottle green eyes for just a moment.
There’s something unspoken there, something that makes my heart skip.
Her fingers tighten on my arm, but before either of us can respond, Kelly presses on.
Above us, the jumbotron flashes with photos from O’Malley’s: Iris laughing at something I’d said, my hand on the small of her back as we left the bar. Kelly’s grin widens.
“These photos from O’Malley’s last week have your fans in quite a tizzy.
Looking pretty cozy there, you two!” My arm tightens around Iris’s shoulders.
Those damn photos. Though looking at them now, projected larger than life above the ice, I can’t even pretend we don’t look like exactly what everyone thinks we are.
“Now where’s the fun in confirming or denying anything?
” I can’t help the grin spreading across my face.
“Though I will say...” I pull her closer, breathing in vanilla and hairspray.
“When you find the right dance partner, magic happens. Wouldn’t you agree, Pretty Girl?
” Iris flushes pink, but her eyes are sparkling.
“Well, I suppose some partnerships work better than others.” Her voice is soft but playful, making the audience lean in.
“‘Work better’?” I echo, arching an eyebrow. “Is that what we’re calling it?” The crowd goes wild. Kelly’s practically bouncing on her skates. “Oh, you two are cruel to keeping us guessing like this!” I wink at the audience.
“A little mystery keeps things interesting, doesn’t it?” Iris shakes her head, still blushing even as she angles inwards.
“You’re impossible,” she murmurs, so only I can hear, but she’s smiling, and she doesn’t pull away from my side. I lean down slightly, my lips close to her ear. The crowd’s roar fades to background noise as Kelly announces the scores.
“Only with you, Pretty Girl.” Her eyes dart up to meet mine. “Only ever with you.” A perfect 30 flashes across the screen above us, a perfect score, but somehow that feels like the second most important thing happening right now.