Star Crossed Skates (Seattle Puckaneers #4)

Prologue

Four Months Earlier

September

I’m not sure how I ended up being the player with a massive social media following, but it probably has something to do with my rugged good looks or the fact that I’m absolutely charming both on and off camera.

Our media team usually loves when I post behind-the-scenes stuff, community engagement, that kind of thing. It makes the team look good, makes the fans feel connected, and it’s basically the only part of my job that doesn’t involve getting hit by enormous humans on skates.

I’m at the downtown rink for an equipment donation pick for one of our youth programs, but I’m a week early because I didn’t actually read the email details, so I end up wandering around killing time, and when I hear skates on ice I follow the sound because content opportunities, right?

The rink holds a lone figure skater and the sound of her blades is sharper than hockey skates. I wander down to rink level and lean against the boards to watch because I’ve got nothing better to do.

She’s in all black, running through what must be a program. I don’t know anything about figure skating beyond what I’ve seen at the Olympics, but I know athleticism when I see it.

And I know when someone is completely in their element.

She picks up speed and launches into a jump. I count the rotations without meaning to. Two and a half. She lands it so smoothly it looks easy even though I know it’s not.

Then she sets up again. This time she goes higher, rotates faster. Three full rotations before she lands, her leg extending behind her in a line that seems impossible.

Holy shit.

I pull out my phone and film for maybe thirty seconds because she’s insanely talented and in my head I’m rationalizing this as a pitch for community relations.

The NHL team that shares a training rink with local figure skaters.

Except I’m honestly not thinking about content strategy.

I’m thinking that I want to be able to watch this—watch her—again later.

She sets up for another jump and falls this time, hitting the ice hard enough that I actually wince because she’s got no protective padding on.

But she’s back on her feet immediately, brushing ice shavings off her leggings, skating back to try it again like hitting the ice is just part of the process.

On the second attempt, she lands it clean.

She moves through more footwork, another spin that seems to go on forever, then skates closer to my side of the rink to grab water from the bench which is when I get a clear look at her face for the first time.

She’s beautiful in a way that makes my brain stutter to almost a complete stop before starting back up again.

Light eyes, sharp features, and an intensity in her expression that makes it clear she’s focused on exactly one thing and it’s definitely not me.

My phone almost slips out of my hand and I grip it tighter.

She notices me watching. Our eyes meet for maybe two seconds.

Then she looks away like I literally don’t exist.

Right. Okay. I pocket my phone and leave before I can make it weird.

Back at the practice rink, I can’t stop watching that video.

It’s not even a minute of footage. Nothing special, just a figure skater doing her thing. Except I’ve watched it at least twenty times and I still can’t figure out what it is that makes me keep coming back.

The way she moves, maybe. Like she’s having a conversation with the ice.

Or the way she got back up after that fall without any drama or visible frustration. Just immediate problem-solving.

Or maybe it’s simpler than that. Maybe I just want to know what it feels like to be looked at that way.

I track down a couple of figure skaters who train at our facility. They rent ice time in the break between our morning skates and afternoon practice.

“Hey, question,” I say, approaching them as they unlace their skates. “You guys know any figure skaters around the area?”

They exchange a look. “There’s a lot of figure skaters in the area,” one of them says.

“Right. Sorry.” I pull up the video on my phone. “I saw someone training at the downtown rink. I was thinking about using it for team social media content maybe. Community athletes, that kind of thing. But I don’t know who it is.”

She takes my phone and watches, her eyes widening slightly. “Oh. That’s Juliette Chastain.”

“Juliette,” I repeat. Of course her name is Juliette. The universe and its constant sense of humor.

“She’s good,” the other skater says, leaning over to watch too. “Like, really good. She was training for nationals, I think.”

“Is she local?”

“No, Canada. Toronto, maybe?” She hands my phone back. “Why do you want to use this for social media?”

“Just thought it would be cool. Showing different athletes using the same facilities.”

“You should definitely ask her first. She’s a bit of a—” She breaks off and glances at her friend. “You should just ask her.”

“Yeah. I will. Thanks.”

I walk away with a name and no plan for what to do with it.

Juliette Chastain.

One week later, I go back to the practice rink.

I tell myself it’s to ask about using the footage. That’s the professional thing to do. Get permission, be respectful and all that.

I’m lying to myself and I know it.

She’s there again, running through what looks like the same program. I wait until she takes a water break and then walk onto the bench.

“Hey,” I call out.

She looks over and I see the exact moment she recognizes me from last week. Her expression doesn’t exactly warm up. “Hi.”

“I’m Rodriguez. I play for the Puckaneers.”

“…And?”

Okay. Tough crowd. I didn’t expect her to ask for a signature or anything but she seems pretty irritated that I’m even speaking to her. Against my better judgment I keep going because I’ve made it this far and at least she’s conversing with me.

“I saw you skating last week,” I continue. “You’re really good.”

“Thank you.” She’s already turning back to the ice.

“Wait. I actually wanted to ask you something. I took some video—just like thirty seconds—and I was wondering if I could post it online. Community athletes content. But I wanted to check with you first.”

That gets her attention. “You filmed me?”

“It wasn’t even a minute. From far away. Nothing identifying or anything. And I can edit it to look pretty cool.” This is going badly. “But, I mean, I can delete it if you want. I just thought it would be cool to show different sports using the same facilities.”

“Delete it.”

“Yeah. Okay. No problem.” I open my photos and delete the video right in front of her. Gone. “Deleted.”

“Great. Anything else?”

There are about a hundred things I want to say. I want to ask what that jump felt like to land, how long she’s been skating, and if she feels the same way about ice that I do.

Instead I only say, “No. That’s it. Sorry for interrupting your practice.”

She sets her water bottle on the shelf and skates away without looking back.

I leave the rink feeling like I just crashed and burned.

I can’t stop thinking about her.

It’s not just that she’s beautiful, though she is. It’s not just that she can do things on ice that seem physically impossible, though she can.

It’s the way she looked at me like I was a minor inconvenience. Like being a professional hockey player meant nothing to her. Like I was just some random guy interrupting her practice.

I’ve never had someone be that completely unimpressed by me. And for some reason, that makes me want to know her even more.

Almardon notices almost immediately. His goalie instincts make him the smartest and most observant person in the room at any given moment.

“You’re being weird,” he says one day after practice, about a week after what I’m coming to think of as ‘the incident’. We’re in the locker room, the smell of sweat and ice still clinging to everything.

“I’m not being weird.”

“You keep checking your phone like every five minutes. You’ve been distracted all week. What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Rodriguez.”

“There’s this girl.”

He laughs. “Oh my God. Always a girl with you.”

“Not like this. I can’t get her out of my head and she wants absolutely nothing to do with me.”

“So leave her alone then.”

“She might train at our facility though.”

He shakes his head and shoves his hand through his hair, water from his wet hair flicking onto the bench. “You’re such an idiot.”

“Very aware.”

I don’t look for her. I swear I don’t.

But two weeks later I’m in the PT suite, just hanging out and talking to Jake when she walks past, bag over her shoulder, heading toward the practice rinks.

So she does train here.

Jake notices me noticing. “That’s Juliette,” he says.

“I know.”

“She teaches here too. Beginner classes, mostly.”

“Right.”

“You interested?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“You’re not well known for your subtlety, Rodriguez.” He’s grinning. “I’ve never seen her date anyone though. At least not since she started training here last year.”

That alone should make me give up.

Instead it just makes me more determined.

I find her Instagram account that night. It’s public and filled with mostly skating content. Videos of her training, competition clips, some teaching moments with her students. I watch every single one, multiple times.

It’s not creepy if it’s public, right? This is what Instagram is for.

There’s one video in particular I keep coming back to. Her landing a beautiful jump in what looks like a competition. The way she smiles after she lands it—not at the crowd, not at the judges, just this small satisfied smirk like she proved something to herself.

I want to see her smile like that in person.

October

I see her at the facility a few times over the next couple weeks but she’s always teaching, laser focused, in the same black practice gear, hair in a tight bun, unsmiling.

I try to bring her a coffee one day when I’m feeling particularly confident and get shot down almost immediately.

But I watch her sometimes when I’m walking past the practice rink and she’s patient with the kids in a way that surprises me. When one little girl falls and starts crying, Juliette crouches down next to her, says something that makes the girl laugh, and helps her back up.

So she’s not cold or mean.

She’s just completely uninterested in me, specifically.

Which somehow actually makes it worse.

Late October, I’m in the lobby between practice sessions, going through my phone, when she walks past with a coffee in hand.

“Hey,” I say before I can stop myself.

She looks over and I see the recognition, then she almost smiles at me. “Hi.”

“Rodriguez. We met a few weeks ago.”

“Yep, I remember.” She stops walking.

Holy shit. It’s happening. She’s actually talking to me. Be cool. Be cool.

“Right.” I stand up, trying to look casual while my brain is screaming she stopped walking, she’s having a conversation. “I just wanted to say, I watched you teach the other day. You’re really good with the kids.”

“Thanks.” Her expression warms up a fraction. “They’re fun. Exhausting, but fun.”

“Yeah, I bet. How long have you been teaching?”

“Couple years.” She shifts her weight, coffee cup in both hands, and for a second she looks like she might actually be enjoying this conversation. “It helps pay for ice time.”

“That’s smart. Ice time’s brutal.” She’s nodding, making eye contact. This is the longest we’ve ever talked. She’s interested. She has to be interested. “Do you—I mean, would you maybe want to grab coffee sometime? Talk about skating, or training, or…”

Her whole body goes still and something flickers across her face before it goes completely blank.

“No thank you.”

Three words. Polite but final. Like a door closing right in my face.

“Okay. Yeah. No problem.” I back up, trying to play it off while my stomach drops. “Sorry for bothering you.”

“You’re not—” She stops then seems to reconsider whatever she was about to say. “I have to go. Class starts soon.”

She walks away faster than necessary, gripping her coffee cup like a lifeline, and I’m left standing there replaying those thirty seconds when I could have sworn the way she looked at me, the way she actually engaged meant something.

Maybe I’m imagining things. Seeing what I want to see.

Or maybe she’s just not interested and that’s it.

November

I don’t see her for a few weeks after that. I stop checking the schedule for when she teaches and don’t look for her in the hallways. I even stop watching her Instagram stories even though she posts new training videos twice a week.

Okay, I watch the Instagram stories. But I’m not seeking her out in person and that’s what counts.

Then one afternoon in early November, I’m coming out of a team meeting and nearly run into her in the hallway. Literally almost collide because I’m looking at my phone and not where I’m going.

“Sorry—” I start, then see who it is. “Oh. Hey.”

“Hi.” She sidesteps me and keeps walking.

That’s it. No anger or annoyance. Just complete indifference.

And I finally get it. She’s not playing hard to get. She’s not testing me. She just genuinely does not care that I exist.

So I stop.

I stop finding excuses to be where she is. Stop rehearsing things to say if I run into her. Stop checking her Instagram every day.

I’m not that guy. I won’t be the creep who can’t take no for an answer.

Even if I can’t stop thinking about the way she looked skating that day in September. Even if I still want to know what made her smile like that after landing that beautiful jump.

Some things aren’t meant to be.

The season kicks into high gear. We’re playing well, I’m getting decent ice time, and I mostly manage to not think about Juliette Chastain.

Mostly.

Then I wreck my knee in a game against Vancouver.

It happens fast. I’m chasing the puck into the corner and their defenseman hits me from behind just as I plant my foot to turn.

I feel something give in my knee—a pop then a lightning bolt of pain, white hot and nauseating—and then I’m down on the ice, cold seeping through my uniform.

For a second I can’t even yell, can’t breathe, just lie there with my cheek against the ice while my brain tries to catch up to what my knee already knows: I’m fucked.

The MRI confirms it. Grade two MCL sprain. I’m suddenly faced with six weeks minimum before I can even think about skating again, plus physical therapy three times a week, plus gradual return to play protocol.

I’m out until late January at the earliest. Maybe February.

The knee brace becomes my newest fashion accessory and suddenly I have way too much time to think and way too much time to wander the facility with nothing better to do than bother people.