Chapter 12
Zoe
I stood at center ice, my breath puffing in white clouds, staring at the empty stands.
Nationals.
The word echoed in my head like a threat.
It was three weeks away. Three weeks to perfect the program. Three weeks to land the Triple Axel consistently. Three weeks to prove to my father—and the world—that Zoe Carmichael wasn't just a pretty face in a sparkly dress.
"Again," Coach Sergei barked from the boards. He was wrapped in a parka, holding a steaming thermos of coffee, looking like a disappointed walrus.
"I’m tired, Sergei," I gasped, bending over, hands on my knees. My quads were trembling.
"Tired is for losers," Sergei said, his Russian accent thick. "Champions are tired after they win. Again. From the step sequence."
I straightened up. I wiped the sweat from my forehead.
I started the music in my head. Swan Lake. Cliché? Maybe. But effective.
I moved. Crossovers. Edges. The build-up.
Launch.
I threw myself into the air. One rotation. Two. Three—
My timing was off. My core wasn't tight enough. I felt the axis tilt mid-air.
I came down hard.
I didn't land on my blade. I landed on my hip. Again.
I slid across the ice, pain radiating up my side. I lay there for a second, staring at the rafters, biting my lip to keep from crying.
"Pathetic," Sergei’s voice echoed.
I scrambled up. "I slipped."
"You hesitated," Sergei corrected. "You are distracted. Your head is in the clouds. Or perhaps in the locker room?"
I froze. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"I see you," Sergei said, walking toward the gate. "I see you with the hockey player. The big one. The Wolf."
"He’s my tutor," I lied automatically.
"He is a distraction," Sergei spat. "He is heavy energy. You need to be light. You need to be air. He is earth. He drags you down."
"He’s helping me get stronger," I argued, skating over to the boards. "My jump height is up two inches."
"And your landing percentage is down forty percent," Sergei countered, checking his clipboard. "Strength is useless without focus, Zoe. You are thinking about him when you should be thinking about rotation."
He looked at me, his eyes cold.
"Your father called me."
My stomach dropped. "He did?"
"He says if you do not medal at Nationals, he pulls the plug. No more coaching. No more ice time. You go to law school."
Law school. The family legacy. A life of libraries and briefs and suffocating boredom.
"He can't do that," I whispered.
"He pays the bills," Sergei shrugged. "He buys the ice. He owns you, Zoe. Until you win. If you win, you own yourself. If you lose… you belong to him."
He turned away. "Take five minutes. Then we run the program again. Full speed. If you fall, we start over. If you fall twice, we are done for the day."
I stood there, gripping the boards.
Law school.
I imagined it. Sitting in a lecture hall. Wearing suits. Never feeling the wind on my face. Never feeling the edge of the blade.
And never seeing Rory. Because if I went to law school, I’d move to the city. I’d leave Northridge. I’d leave him.
I couldn't do it.
I needed to land this jump.
I closed my eyes. I tried to find my center. But instead of the music, I heard Rory’s voice. You're a storm.
The storm is messy, I thought. The storm crashes.
I needed to be perfect.
By noon, my body felt like it had been run over by a truck.
I had fallen four more times. Sergei had ended the session early, shaking his head in disgust.
I sat in the cafeteria, staring at a plate of salad I didn't want. My hip throbbed. My ego throbbed harder.
My phone buzzed.
Rory [12:15 PM]: Lunch? I’m hiding in the library stacks. I have a sandwich with your name on it.
I looked at the message. A warmth spread through my chest, momentarily dulling the pain. Rory. His name was a balm.
But then Sergei’s voice echoed in my head. He is a distraction. He drags you down.
And my father’s threat. Law school.
If I went to see him, we wouldn't study. We would talk. We would touch. We would find a dark corner and I would forget about skating for an hour.
And then tomorrow, I would fall again.
I couldn't afford an hour. I needed to study tape. I needed to stretch. I needed to focus.
I typed back.
Me: Can't. Sergei is killing me. Extra practice.
It was a lie. Practice was over. I was just sitting here, miserable.
Rory: You okay? You sound... short.
Me: Just stressed. Nationals in 3 weeks.
Rory: I can help. Massage? Pep talk? I can threaten the judges.
I smiled faintly. He would, too.
Me: I need to focus, Rory. I’ll text you later.
I put the phone face down.
I felt like I had just kicked a puppy. A very large, dangerous puppy.
"Trouble in paradise?"
Mia slid into the seat across from me. She looked tired, too. Midterms were hitting everyone.
"No paradise," I muttered. "Just purgatory."
"Is it the Wolf?"
"It’s everything. My dad. Skating. The fact that I’m lying to everyone I love except you."
Mia stole a cucumber slice from my plate. "You love him?"
I froze.
"I didn't say that."
"You said 'everyone I love'. And you weren't talking about Sergei."
I put my head in my hands. "I think I do, Mia. And it’s terrifying. Because he’s… he’s Rory. He’s intense. He’s damaged. And if my dad finds out, he destroys both of us."
"So what’s the plan?"
"Win Nationals," I said, lifting my head. "If I win, I get sponsorship offers. I get financial independence. I can tell my dad to go to hell. I can date who I want."
"And if you lose?"
"Law school."
Mia grimaced. "Okay. So we win. We channel all that sexual frustration into angular momentum."
"Exactly."
"But Zoe," Mia said gently. "You can't freeze him out. He’s not just a distraction. He’s your… anchor? Is that the cheesy term?"
"He’s my gravity," I whispered.
"Well, you can't fight gravity. You just fall."
Three days passed.
I went into Robot Mode.
Wake up at 4 AM. Ice. Class. Gym. Study. Sleep. Repeat.
I dodged Rory.
I ignored his texts about meeting up. I kept our conversations short and transactional.
Rory: Gym tonight?
Me: Can't. Studying.
Rory: I saw you walking to class. You look tired.
Me: I’m fine.
Rory: Zoe. Talk to me.
Me: I can't right now, Rory. Please.
It hurt. It hurt physically to push him away. Every time my phone buzzed, my heart jumped. Every time I walked past the library, I wanted to run inside and find him.
But I was skating better. The focus was returning. I landed the Triple Axel twice in practice on Thursday. Sergei actually smiled.
"Better," he said. "The ice is cold again. No fire."
No fire. Cold. Perfect.
I was miserable.
Friday night.
I was in the athlete’s gym—the main one, not the private one. I was on a treadmill, running intervals, trying to burn off the anxiety that had settled permanently in my chest.
It was 9:00 PM. The gym was mostly empty.
"Running away from me?"
The voice came from behind me. Low. Dangerous.
I nearly fell off the belt. I slammed the emergency stop.
I turned around.
Rory stood there.
He looked… furious.
He wasn't wearing his usual hoodie. He was in a tank top and gym shorts, sweat glistening on his skin. He looked massive. And tired. There were dark circles under his eyes that matched mine.
"I’m not running away," I panted, wiping my face with a towel. "I’m training."
"You've been ghosting me for three days," he growled, stepping closer. He didn't care that we were in public. His eyes were flashing. "Three days, Zoe. No texts. No library. No cave."
"I’ve been busy," I said defensively. "Nationals—"
"I know about Nationals," he interrupted. "I know the pressure. But we had a deal. We’re allies. We help each other."
"I can't help you right now, Rory," I snapped. "I can barely help myself. I’m drowning."
"Then let me pull you out!" He grabbed the handrails of the treadmill, caging me in. "That’s what I’m here for. I’m the anchor, remember? I’m the one who catches you."
"You're the distraction!" I shouted.
The gym went silent. A few people looked over.
Rory flinched as if I had slapped him. He stepped back, his hands dropping to his sides.
"A distraction," he repeated, his voice devoid of emotion. "Is that what I am? Just a… a toy? Something to play with until the real work starts?"
"No," I whispered, realizing my mistake. "Rory, no. That’s not what I meant. I mean… when I’m with you, I don't think about skating. I don't think about winning. I just think about you."
"And that’s bad?"
"Yes! Because if I don't win, I lose everything! My dad pulls my funding. I have to leave Northridge. I have to leave you."
Tears pricked my eyes. I blinked them back furiously.
"I’m pushing you away so I can stay with you," I confessed, my voice breaking. "It’s twisted. I know. But I have to win."
Rory stared at me. His expression softened, the anger draining away, replaced by a deep, aching sadness.
"Zoe," he sighed. "You think you have to do this alone. You think strength is suffering in silence. Like I did."
"It is," I insisted. "It’s discipline."
"It’s torture," he corrected. "And it doesn't work. Eventually, you break. I broke. And you were the one who put me back together."
He reached out, his hand hovering near my arm, but he didn't touch me. He respected the public space.
"Let me help," he said softly. "Not as a distraction. As fuel. Let me carry some of the weight."
"How?" I asked, wiping a tear. "You can't jump for me."
"No. But I can make sure you land."
He looked around the gym. It was clearing out.
"Come with me," he said.
"Where?"
"The Hive. My place. Just for an hour. No sex. No distractions. Just… recharge."
I looked at him. I looked at the treadmill.
I was so tired of running.
"Okay," I whispered.
We took his truck.
When we got to the duplex—Unit 4A—it felt like stepping back into a dream I had woken up from too soon. The smell of cedar. The dark walls. The safety.
Rory led me to the couch.
"Sit," he ordered.
I sat.
He went to the kitchen. He came back with a glass of water and a protein bar.
"Eat. Drink."
I obeyed. I hadn't realized how hungry I was.
Then, he went to the bedroom and came back with a massage gun and a bottle of oil.