Page 279 of Well Played

I grin and skate over to him. “Did you see that?” It’s impossible to miss the bubbly excitement in my voice.

“I did. You were amazing,” Coach replies with pride in his voice. “Now you just need to land it another thousand times until it’s easier than breathing.”

I laugh because he doesn’t need to tell me that. I’ll make sure I can land itfivethousand times before I compete. I mute my playlist and notice the time. “You’re early, Coach. Eager to get a jump start on the competition, too?”

He hesitates. “Actually, I came over early because I wanted to introduce you to someone.”

“Oh?” I quirk a brow as I look around the stands, but it’s just us.

“She’s running late,” he says apologetically, managing somehow to keep the annoyance out of his tone. Coach abhors lateness—no excuses, ever—and so whoever is joining us, she must be pretty important if he’s excusing her.

Excitement rises as I ask eagerly, “Is it my new choreographer?”

“No. It’s?—”

Whatever he was about to say, it’s cut off by the doors to the rink slamming with a bang. We both turn to see the new arrival, and my excitement morphs into confusion as a young girl enters the space.

She’s tall—a lot taller than me—with long blond hair that, even tied back, trails down to her butt. She has to be around my age, so there’s no way that she’s the world renowned choreographer that we talked about getting last year.

“Coach?” I ask, at the same time the new arrival shrieks “Dell!”

I rarely call Coach by his first name, and so the over-familiarity from this girl, especially as she flings her armsaround him in a bear hug, makes me question what the hell is happening.

“Nicolette, I’ve told you before, it’s Coach when we’re on the ice.”

“But we’re not on the ice,” she points out with a frown and a pout.

I half expect Coach to give her hell for her attitude, but he chuckles and shakes his head. “Touché, Trouble. But you’re late.”

Trouble? Nicknames? What the hell is going on?

“By, like, a minute.”

“By seven, actually. And now you need to skate laps.”

“What? That’s not fair!” she wails.

“Twenty laps. Now, Nicolette. If you argue, I’ll just add more on.”

She whines, but doesn’t argue, and stomps off with her skate bag to lace up. I turn to Coach, utter shock written on my face.

“Dell? Hugs? Arriving late andonlygetting twenty laps? You got a new favourite or something?” I tease, but inside my heart is pounding.

I need Dell. If I’m going to make it—and not making it isnotan option—then I need him, and his full focus. Dell’s an ex-figure skater and the best coach I’ve ever had. He’s only in his late twenties, and he made it all the way to the Euro Championships final as a teenager before an injury ruined his chance of continuing. He understands what it’s like to do this with an injury and has always looked out for me with more than just the care of a coach. He treats me like a little sister, and it’s done wonders for my skating. I can’t lose him.

“Vesper, breathe. You’re freaking out,” he says calmly.

“I can’t…I need…You know this is my last shot.”

“Vesp, thisisn’tyour last shot. You have to stop putting so much pressure on yourself.”

Easy for him to say. He has a waitlist of skaters wanting to be coached by him. If he doesn’t make a name for himself with me, there’s always the next girl.

I’m replaceable.

He’snot.

“Who is she?” I ask, to change the topic and get the focus off me and my mini meltdown.

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