Page 51 of Ice Me Baby

To my utter amusement—and Dean’s embarrassment—he participates in my Saturday ice-skating class. I have never seen a man look so awkward in a pair of yoga pants and an athletic long-sleeve shirt. You’d think he was in his birthday suit.

“I feel too exposed,” he grunts.

I chuckle. “I promise you look fine.”

A little boy—the only boy in my class—stands beside him. His tiny elbow bumps Dean’s hip, and he says, “Stop being so weird. Miss Lizzy is teaching, and you're interrupting. That’s rude.”

I bite my lip to stifle the giggle that wants to burst free. Dean looks down at him, slightly shocked, before his gaze flicks to me. When he sees me trying to hold back laughter, he rolls his eyes. “Fine. Sorry, Miss Lizzy, for interrupting the class.”

“It’s alright Dean. We are close to the end of class which means...”

“Free time!” the kids yell excitedly.

I clap my hands to get their attention again. “Correct! Alright, my little snowflakes, let’s get the cones and equipment cleaned up. The rest of class is time to have fun.”

The kids quickly skate around the rink to gather everything up, which makes it easier for me to put things away. I turn to find Dean looking at me with a pleading expression. “What now?”

“Can I PLEASE go change?”

I snort a laugh as I shake my head. “Go change, you diva.”

He points a finger at me and glares. “I amnota diva. I don’t like tight clothes! I am a hockey player not an ice skater. This”—he gestures wildly at himself—“is not me.”

Laughing, I wave him off. “Go change.”

He sighs in relief. “Thank you. Oh, glorious sweatpants and hoodie, here I come!”

After I finish helping the kids clean up, I wave goodbye. I make a few laps around as Dean makes his way out of the changing room.

He cups his hands around his mouth and yells, “Are you going to skate tonight?”

I give him a nod and skate over to my phone. Dean meets me at the edge of the ice, where the concrete walls divide the inside from the outside of the ice. Scrolling through Spotify, I find the song I’ve been practicing to.

As I hand him my phone, I hear the doors to the rink open. In walks Mac, quickly followed by the rest of my team. My jaw drops when all ten guys stroll in.

“What are you all doing here?” I squeak out.

Taz points to Dean. “Lewi texted that you were gonna skate, and we want to see what the amazing Elizabeth Monroe can do.”

I send Dean a glare, but he just gives me a mischievous smirk. “You made me participate in class today. This is only fair.”

I throw my hands up and huff. “How is this fair? You are taking the classes for scaring me!”

He shrugs. “You made me wear that weird outfit.”

“It’s normal attire for ice skaters,” I mutter.

“And I’m not an ice skater,” he counters.

These guys are going to drive me crazy! “Fine, whatever. Hit play on the music once I’m in the center,” I grumble, then make my way to the center of the ice. “Got it!” he shouts.

I wasn’t expecting an audience this big to watch me skate. It’s a bit intimidating, to be honest. It’s been years since I’ve had this many eyes on me while I skate. This isn’t going to be an impressive routine, considering I’m not doing any jumps. I don’t want to ruin the progress when my ankle is still healing after my last skate.

The first notes of Are You With Me by Nilu play through the Bluetooth system. I start with my head bowed, but as the music starts, I spin out of the center while one arm flares up, and the other flares down. I pick up speed as the first lines fill the room. I bring my hands up with my fingers flared out over my face, continuing up and over my head.

I go into a scratch spin with my hands above my head, then slowly bring my hands over my heart as I spin faster. Digging into the ice with my toe pick to stop my spin, I point to the audience. Oddly, Mac and Dean are standing where I point as the words echo around us,I need you here.

I skate toward them, then cut to the right as I pick up speed again. This routine is more about having fun rather than how many points I would get in a competition. I’m skating from my heart instead of worrying what the judges would think of my choreographed routine. It’s a freeing feeling.

---