Page 46 of Head Over Skates

“Shannon, I think.”

But I don’t know anything anymore. Owen wasn’t acting like a deadbeat dad at the donut shop. He seemed to have a pretty good relationship with his son. Then again, I’m basing this assumption off thirty seconds of seeing them together. The world is a house of mirrors. Yeah, I'm pretty much a jaded woman now. Maybe I’ll write angsty poetry from now on instead of a hockey blog.

But I'm determined to do the mature thing and clear the air. I owe Owen an apology, and he deserves to hear it face-to-aggravatingly handsome face.

15

OWEN

As I make my way towards the rink for my usual solo morning skate, I hear the faint sound of blades gliding across the ice. I pause, knowing it’s Emily, which I find strange because she’s usually done by now so she can avoid me. And considering avoiding me is her favorite hobby, I can’t help but wonder if she’s changed her tactic to goading me.

Normally, I'd be irritated by the intrusion into my private skate time. But today, I don't mind at all. I lean against the boards, transfixed, as I watch her dance across the ice.

She's dressed in leggings and a tight leotard, her honey-blonde hair swept into a loose braid. My heart pounds in my chest at the sight of her.

She catches air and her arms extend like wings as she lands—her blades carving delicate patterns into the ice. She takes one jump after the other… spin after spin. A pirouette here, a leap there—each motion seamlessly flows into the next. I'm mesmerized by her fluidity, her poise, the sheer beauty of the shapes she makes with her body. She's ethereal, transcendent… the most graceful creature I've ever seen. Watching her feels strangely intimate, like I'm glimpsing something not meant for my eyes.

Yet I can't look away.

She doesn't notice me at first, lost in her own world. I'm almost hesitant to intrude on this private moment between Emily and the ice. But I can't resist the magnetic pull drawing me towards her. Even when she yells at me in front of a Tim Horton’s bathroom.

Finally, she comes to a stop at center ice, catching her breath. Our eyes meet and she gives me one of her witchy grins, nodding in an unspoken acknowledgement before continuing on with her routine. No smart remarks or biting comments. I know she hates me, but the way she's looking at me, it feels like a temporary ceasefire in our ongoing battle of wits and wills. My breath catches in my throat. I need to get out there. To be close to her.

She skates back around and stops right in front of me, a challenge sparkling on her features.

And I do love a challenge.

"Hello. Kitty Cat," I say, fixing my gaze right into her eyes.

Her pretty little lips part ever so slightly, and for the tiniest moment, I swear I see her throat bob. As if trying to gain control of this interaction, she smirks and skates backwards, beckoning me to join her on the ice. Oh, I’ll join her, but she is anything but in control.

I step onto the ice, joining Emily, but she’s all over the place. Her strong legs carrying her to the opposite side of the rink. She wants to play? Fine.

She's remarkably fast, her strides long and powerful. Her cheeks flush from the chill and exertion, tendrils of hair escaping from her braid and framing her face. She's breathtaking.

I take off, blades carving sharply into the ice. I dig deep, willing my legs to propel me forward. But Emily keeps her pace, laughing as she evades me. She really is a little kitten, wanting to be chased but not caught. Keeping my eyes pinned on her, I glide to center, and send a roguish grin her way. A small smile tugs atthe corner of her mouth as she circles around me, her edges crisp and clean.

"You're pretty good," I tease.

She arches an eyebrow, gliding in a larger circle. "Just pretty good?"

I throw my hands up. “Okay, you're incredible.”

“HA. You wouldn’t know a triple lux from a toe loop.”

“You’re probably right about that.”

Emily glides backwards, regarding me thoughtfully. "Well, you're not so bad yourself, for a hockey player."

"Gee, thanks," I chuckle.

She throws a teasing glance over her shoulder as she glides away, and I follow her with my tongue practically hanging over the side of my mouth.

We do a slow lap around the rink, moving in tandem, the silence between us surprisingly comfortable—just feeling the cut of our blades on the ice.

Eventually, she coasts to the boards, catching her breath. I pull up beside her.

“So...” she begins, not quite meeting my eyes. “I actually have something I need to tell you.”

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