Page 1 of Ice Dance Hockey

Chapter1

A Terrible, Awful, Wonderful Idea

Rhett

Iwant Jack Leslie back.

I repeat the mantra, beating out each rep. I puff out the five hundredth grueling sit-up, sweat soaking the ridges of my eighteen-pack, and the build-up of lactic acid burning my insides.

I’m always up at four am because I like to hit the ice by five. Everything’s packed and ready to go the night before, by my PA, Alan. I allow myself twenty minutes in my house robe while I put together my pre-workout smoothie. I call it the Rhett-o-nator because it detonates the spark of life I need to start a guy like me right. Then I dress in a pair of black slacks, a yellow polo, and a nice pair of shoes before I head to the rink.

Oh, wait.Can’t forget a dab of Oud Wood over my collarbone. Jack loves my scent, and what if I bump into him today?

I want to text Jack and tell him that if he wants to see real ice time with New York this season, he should be here with me, training in the off-season. His jailor, otherwise known as Mercy Meyer, finally allowed him to go for coffee with me. Friendly coffee. It didn’t take ten minutes into our coffee “date” for me to know, I could never be just friends with Jack.

My father is right. He should be mine. We’re destiny.

I work on solving the dilemma that’s been plaguing me with my foot to the gas in my McClaren as I make my way out of Vancouver’s downtown—I live in the heart of one of the most beautiful cities in Canada.

I don’t want Jack’s career to suffer because of my love for him. Somehow, I need to continue to throw Father off the scent of Jack, while secretly pursuing Jack. I’m not worried—I love a challenge. Jack and Mercy’s relationship is going to plummet straight to hell once Jack moves to the other side of the continent for hockey, I’m sure of it. It’ll barely require me to lift a finger, other than to be there for Jack whenever he needs me.

And a baby? Already? What was that man thinking? Jack and I had years together; plenty of time to build a solid foundation before adding children to the mix. They’ve barely breathed life into their relationship, and now they’ve got a newborn infant squalling all night. The lack of sleep alone will be enough to push them over the edge, and Jack will see that Mercy was a rebound. He’ll run back to my open arms.

Rather than practice at a fancy arena where the very famous and beloved hockey God Rhett Elkington will be expected to work out, I’ve elected to use the rink at a private club the Elkingtons are members of. It’s still a state-of-the-art facility and equipped with the luxuries I’m used to. I’m not supposed to have keys to the rink, but I’ve worked out a deal with the club’s president, who happens to be my hockey coach’s mom.

The Arovini’s—Coach’s family—are a big name in Vancouver and therefore frequent the same circles as my family. They were more than happy to give me two hours of access before the rink opened, to give their son’s most valuable player the practice time he needed.

Being a hockey star at my level requires more than dedication, it requires a level of excellence most aren’t ready to devote. I am the best, and I want to remain the best.

I lace up my skates, humming my favorite tune, and when I’m ready, stick in hand, I trek across the rubber flooring with my chest out proud. That first glide onto the ice is still my favorite thing in the world.

I know there’s something wrong as soon as I enter the tunnel-like hallway from the locker room to the rink. Is that … yep, it’s Phantom of the Opera, blaring from the speakers. On the ice, onmyice, is what’s got to be the thinnest man alive. He’s dressed in tight black pants and an equally tight long-sleeved black shirt, with floppy black hair.

From the looks of it, he’s been here awhile, which is impossible. Who gets up earlier than I do to practice? A small part of me—about a grain of rice-sized part of me—is impressed. It takes an extra early riser to beat Rhett Elkington to practice. But all the rest of me is white-hot rage. How dare this interloper intrude upon my ice time? How did he get in here?

I observe his graceful glides and the execution of his timing. I know fuck all about figure skating, but I know an athlete when I see one. He’s supremely talented. He’s also going to have to find another place to practice.

Casually, I walk over to the control board and shut off the awful music. I hate this song. I hate this musical. What’s he doing creating a routine to this crap anyway?

I don’t have to go to him. As soon as he figures out the noise he calls music is gone, he sights the source of his problem. Me. He’s a fierce little hornet as he does an angry glide across ice and stops on his blades not even shedding a speck of ice. Fuck, his eyes are dark, soulful, defined by the ridge of his browbone. They look right through me.

He crosses his spindly arms and stares me up and down as if I’m the scum he scrapes off his skates. I’m not used to such a reaction. I’m adored. People think I shit rainbows and ride around on a unicorn. It helps that I’m incredibly handsome. I’ll be featured on the cover of GQ this season and I’ve already been on the cover of Sports Illustrated.

That’s another thing. I’m famous. Even if by chance I’m not someone’s type, being a hockey hero comes with many perks, one of which is leaving people tongue-tied.

His tongue is not tied and if my intuition is working, I’m due for a tongue-lashing of some kind. This’ll be interesting. I wait.

“Hockey player. Yuck.”

I raise my brows. Boring. Though, it is peculiar that he doesn’t know who I am. Even if you don’t watch hockey, you know who Rhett Elkington is. “You’re on my ice, Scott Moir. Time for you to skate your tiny ass out of here,” I say in no uncertain terms.

He scowls. He wants to set me on fire, doesn’t he?

“I was told I could be here until five-thirty am and I’ll be staying until that time.”

I’m four times the size of this puny little ant. I could drag him off the ice easily, but as Father always says, it’s better to solve things with charm.

And failing that, money.

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