Chapter Two
Defensive Moves
After my humiliation this morning with Brittany, I needed to get away from the field, and the world, for a while.
Eventually, I wandered into a big indoor skating rink.
I've always enjoyed skating. But Coach Barnes had me running extra sprints after I overthrew four passes in a row, and our backup quarterback made sure everyone heard his snide comments about "superstar burnout.
" I wanted to punch that smirk off his face, but that would only prove what everyone was already thinking.
Hannigan's losing his edge.
So, I fled like a fugitive from justice.
Yeah, that wasn't my proudest moment. But after showering and changing, I drove aimlessly until I found myself at the ice rink where I'd spent so much time as a kid.
I have no clue why I stopped here. Maybe because it's the last place anyone would look for me.
Football players and skates don't typically mix well.
Now I'm sitting in the mostly empty bleachers, nursing a mediocre coffee from a vending machine, when the prettiest skater I've ever seen walks onto the ice.
At first, I'm not even sure that girl is real.
Then I blink twice and lean forward. Oh yeah, she's real.
Anyone with a body like that deserves my attention.
The pristine ice almost glitters in the lights.
Only a handful of spectators are here, scattered around the rink.
The skater girl glides across the ice with stunning elegance, and she's practicing moves I've never seen before.
Watching her on the ice...damn, I feel totally incompetent.
Her hair shimmers in the sunlight, and she's wearing simple black leggings and a fitted gray top.
Nothing flashy. But she doesn't need sequins to command my attention.
And oh yeah, I can't stop admiring her tits. I'd love to suck on those perfect globes until she's about to come just from what I'm doing.
The older man who follows her onto the ice must be her coach. He says something I can't hear from my position, gesturing with weathered hands as the girl nods, her expression serious. Their whole interaction seems like it's all business, no smiles.
Then she begins to move.
Holy shit. I've seen Olympic skating on TV---usually while scrolling through my phone waiting for the hockey to start.
But watching this girl live and in person is something else entirely.
Every move seems precise, controlled, and yet somehow fluid.
She builds speed, then launches into the air, spinning so fast she's a blur before landing on one blade with impossible grace.
Not a wobble, not a wince, just a seamless transition back into her glide.
I lean forward, forgetting my coffee, forgetting my shitty day, forgetting everything but the hypnotic rhythm of her movements.
The way she carves the ice entrances me.
Every turn is calculated, every jump calculated.
Yet nothing she does looks robotic. Her graceful movements exude freedom and energy.
"Extension!" her coach calls out, his accented voice echoing through the nearly empty rink. "Higher on the free leg, Regan!"
Regan. That's the beautiful girl's name.
She adjusts immediately, her leg stretching higher behind her as she glides backward on one foot, her other leg now a perfect horizontal line behind her. The change transforms her from merely impressive to almost otherworldly.
I can't take my eyes off her. Regan commands the ice with such grace and agility that I'm dumbstruck.
My athletic achievements seem clumsy by comparison.
I've thrown game-winning touchdowns in front of seventy thousand screaming fans, but I've never managed to look as effortless on skates as she does.
That triple-whatever-the-hell-it-was knocked me out.
"Again!" her coach hollers, clapping his hands twice. "This time, feel the music inside you, Regan. The judges do not want mathematics. You must give them art!"
She nods, circling the rink to gather speed again.
Her face is a study in concentration with her jaw set and her eyes focused on some point in the distance that only she can see.
Then Regan goes airborne again, spinning like a top, landing with a barely audible scratch of metal on ice.
She makes those moves look so easy. But I know enough about elite athletics to recognize the raw power hidden beneath that grace.
It's the same way a perfect spiral throw seems effortless to fans but requires every muscle in my body working in harmony.
Her coach nods again. "Better. Now the combination."
She takes a deep breath. I can see her shoulders rising and falling even from my spot in the bleachers.
Then she launches into a series of moves that leave me slack-jawed.
Spin, jump, land, immediate jump again, another spin.
I'm so entranced by Regan that I don't notice my coffee tipping until it spills across my jeans.
"Shit!" I mutter, jumping up and brushing at the hot liquid seeping through the denim.
The noise draws Regan's attention. And suddenly, those intense blue eyes are looking straight at me.
I freeze, my coffee-soaked jeans forgotten. I can't tell for sure if she's annoyed by my exclamation or if she's assessing me. For a split second, our gazes lock across the empty rink.
She doesn't miss a beat though, turning away from me without a backward glance.
She goes back to her routine like I never existed.
That stings more than it should. I mean, I don't even know the girl.
But something about her invigorates me more than anything has in a long time. I even forgot about Chandra.
"Focus!" Regan's coach barks, clapping his hands again. His accent sounds like Eastern European or Russian, maybe? "You have a competition in three weeks. No distractions."
The guy shoots a pointed look in my direction, and I experience a sudden urge to shrink into my seat like a little kid who's done something naughty.
I'm Mike Hannigan, star quarterback for the Portland Bigfoots, and I'm being intimidated by a figure skating coach who can't be more than five-foot-eight.
I think my balls just shriveled up.
Guess I should leave. Right? This clearly isn't my space, and I'm interrupting their practice session.
But my legs refuse to move, and I'm glued to my seat as Regan launches into another sequence that defies not only gravity, but everything I thought I knew about human capabilities.
The way she uses the entire rink reminds me of the way I see the football field---dimensions and angles most people don't notice, opportunities where others see obstacles.
Regan's coach says something to her in what definitely sounds like Russian.
As if I'm an expert on languages. She responds in the same language without breaking stride.
Whatever he told her makes her push harder, her movements becoming even more precise, more powerful.
Something about her determination resonates within me too.
Something about her single-minded focus feels familiar to me.
That's how I used to approach the game before everything got so complicated.
Before Chandra left. Before the team started looking at me like I was a liability instead of an asset. Before I started second-guessing every throw.
I watch Regan execute another jump---this one higher and more ambitious than the last. I hold my breath until she lands. The sheer courage it takes to launch yourself into the air like that, knowing the ice is waiting below...damn, it's the hottest thing ever.
"Bohdan," she calls to her coach, slowing her pace slightly. "Let me try the triple-triple again. I didn't get enough height on the second jump."
"You are pushing too hard, lapochka," the man, who I know is Bohdan, replies with a shake of his head. "We have time to perfect it before Nationals."
"I don't want to perfect it at Nationals. I want to perfect it now." Her voice carries across the rink. Nobody seems to notice, though.
I can't help smiling. Her stubborn drive reminds me of myself. I recognize it like I'm looking in a mirror. That need to prove something, not just to others, but to yourself.
Bohdan says something else in Russian or whatever, his tone stern but not unkind.
Regan nods, takes a deep breath, and circles the rink again.
This time when she jumps, everything about her is different---higher, faster, more controlled.
When she lands, her coach claps once, a sharp sound that echoes through the rink.
"Yes! That is what we need!" he calls out. "Again, lapochka!"
She doesn't even pause to acknowledge the praise and just sets up for another attempt. The complete absence of self-congratulation impresses me almost as much as the jump itself. In a sport where I've seen grown men dance like fools after scoring a touchdown, her focus is refreshing.
"Enough for now," Bohdan finally announces after Regan nails the jump sequence for the third consecutive time. "Cool down, then we work on your step sequence."
Regan seems wiped out, but her chest rises and falls with controlled breaths as she begins to circle the rink at a more leisurely pace. For the first time since she stepped onto the ice, her posture softens slightly. Not by much, though. I get the feeling this woman doesn't know how to fully relax.
Then she swerves toward my section of the bleachers, slowing just enough to make deliberate eye contact.
Her blue eyes are cool and assessing, as if she's sizing up an opponent.
I feel strangely exposed under her gaze, like she can see right through me.
As the quarterback, I have a reputation to uphold.
My buddies on the Portland Bigfoots team expect me to always be professional.
Bohdan waves his hand in a grand gesture. "Be gone, you oaf. You are distracting my skater."