Page 182 of Ice Dance Hockey

I hope he knows I’msostealing that mackinaw the moment this is over with.

My outfit is something a little more expensive than usual. Rhett insisted and I can’t resist when it’s skating-related. The V-neck bodysuit is blue with a high collar, an open back, and sleeveless with the sparkliest attached skirt I could get them to sew. I can’t wait until the skirt’s fanning around me.

Scott skates up behind me, securing his hands to my waist. It would be easy to cast Scott into a villain’s role, but I think that would be giving him too much credit. He’s just a perfectionist who’s blinded by his perfectionism. Not planning on being besties—I might have to admit that Kam is my bestie someday—but we’re consummate professionals and work together nicely.

Especially since Scott’s terrified Rhett’s going to have him crushed like the cockroach he is or somehow ruin his career. That’ll scare anyone into “professionalism”.

“Ready, Lowey?”

Is that a tremble I detect in his voice? “Yeah, I’m fucking ready. Are you?”

He shrugs. He’ll never say he isn’t ready; don’t know why I bothered to ask. “So long as you keep your turns tight, we’ll be fine, Wescott … or is it Elkington now?”

Asshole. But is it Elkington now? Rhett is so the kind of possessive dick that’ll want me to take his name. I’ll tell him where he can shove his archaic ideals, I’ll … I’ll … fuck. Now I’m biting my damn lip. Do I want to be Mr. Elkington?

When we marry way into the future, yeah, kinda. Butthiswedding is over, and he’d better bring me those divorce papers immediately. No more convincing me otherwise.

“It’s Elkington,” I tell Scott anyway, just to fuck with him and for being an asshole. “Your hips are too tight, Scott. That’s why turning is hard.”

I smirk—feels good to say it—he scowls.

Our terrible music begins. I can’t wait to never hear it again, but at least our routine is going well.

It’s time for our first turn. We glide backward and I keep as tight as I can, but I know his body and the way he moves. I hop, facing forward, and straddle him to grip him with my thighs and cross my skates behind him for a brief second. His strong arm catches the front of my waist, his fingers grip the exposed part of my torso, and his other hand holds onto the front of my leg just above the knee.

He spins while maneuvering me at the same time so that I’m horizontal now, arching backward like a rainbow to half wrap around his body. He bends and spins, bends and spins again, lifting and rolling me upward at the same time until my one skate lands on the ice and he guides me outward into a twirl.

Phew. Success. We did the first turns, but I can already hear it from Rhett—he’ll have seen the hesitation in my body.

Scott and I sweep backward, side by side and in sync, gathering speed. His hand grips the back of my thigh just above the knee where he’s supposed to and it’s solid enough that I lean into him like I’m supposed to. My legs whirl upward, extended as he turns.

I swear there’s a grotesquepopsound—but it’s hard to tell for sure with that awful music playing all around us—and then all the air leaves my lungs too quickly. Chilled wet slips over my bare thigh as I slide, unable to pull breath into my lungs.

The music’s cut and the first aid crew piles onto the ice, my diaphragm spasming all the while. What happened to Scott? That pop definitely came from Scott.

A tender hand presses against my back and a feminine voice encourages me to take a slow breath through my nose and exhale through my mouth. Following her directions, my diaphragm slowly regains its rhythm.

“There you are,” the first aid lady says. “Longest minute of your life, hey?”

I nod, checking myself over. My limbs are fine, but I think my right thigh’s gonna be bruised to shit. “Are we, okay? Can we start again?”

I know it’s not her job to say if we can start again. She frowns, flicking her gaze to Scott as another first aid member checks me over. Scott’s trying to get up, but he can’t put any weight on his left leg. More curse words fly out of his mouth than I’ve heard from the guy.

“Sorry, honey, but I think he’s out,” she says.

Can the wind be knocked out of you twice? Sharpness flares in my diaphragm and I keel over, clutching my stomach. It’s over. All that practice, all that work and we won’t get to go to nationals. We can try again next year, sure, but the hill to climb feels too big right now.

Tears prick my eyes. I’ve got to get the fuck out of here. I won’t cry in front of all these people. I push away from the nice person trying to help me, standing on my own, pushing off with my right leg into a glide.

I collide with a mountain.

The mountain circles his gorilla-sized hands around my wrists, and I look up into his hazel eyes.

“He dropped you,” the mountain says.

“Rhett?”

“I prefer Logan’s husband.” I scowl. “There you are my feisty little scorpion.”

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