Page 54 of Fauxmance in the City

“Not so tight,” I say, but his gaze is glassy like he doesn’t hear me.

His blade shoves into the ice and he glides faster, clutching me into his side, and I squeeze his hand in a death grip.

“Max, slow down,” I implore, panicked.

My stomach churns as he zips around the rink, the ice a blur under my feet. My stomach drops, and a scream lodges in my throat.

“Stop,” I plead.

Any moment, my blade could catch on the ice, and I could go flying forward against the hard surface, shattering my bones.

“Karen, I’m done. I’m done,” I call out, hoping she hears me on the mic.

Around and around we go, my limbs shaking. Max’s hands are so tight that I’m sure there will be bruises. His breathing is rapid in my ear, his eyes unfocused. He doesn’t seem to hear me or understand my duress.

“Stop!” I scream, my voice catching.

In a flash, I’m yanked from Max’s grip by Sam and glided to the edge of the rink, my hands deposited on the ledge of the wall. I sink to the wet ice. Sam leaves me and zips around the arena, gaining on Max. Max is flying, barely dodging kids with their parents and couples gliding leisurely. Max is rounding in front of me, Sam whizzing straight for us. I think he’s going to crash into Max, but Sam turns at the last second and slices his blades into the ice, coming to an abrupt stop, ice flying around me.

“What the hell were you doing?” Sam yells at Max, who has stopped a foot from the wall.

“I’m sorry.” Max blinks, glancing around the perimeter of the rink as if he’s unsure where he is or how he got there. “I don’t know what happened.”

Sam’s face softens, an understanding dawning. He swings his head around the rink and calls out, “Karen!”

“What’s happening?” I ask.

“I think he had an episode.” Sam lowers his voice. “Maybe PTSD. From the accident.”

“I’m fine.” Max skates off the ice, and Sam helps me around to the exit.

A small gathering of my fans has assembled at the entrance to the rink, books in hand. The word must be out that I’m here. I don’t normally have a legion of fans following me around, but it occasionally happens.

After I remove my skates and slide into my boots, grateful to be on solid ground, I approach the group of women. I’m eager for a distraction. Sam hovers nearby. Forcing a smile, I make small talk while signing. One of the women recognizes Max—the motorcycle hero—and as their attention turns to him, I step away.

Karen detaches the mic pack from my body.

“What about the cocktails?” I ask.

“We’re scrapping it. We have to get back to the townhouse to set up.” The crew is packing up. The rest of the shoot will be at the townhouse, filming the game night tonight and brunch tomorrow.

I look for Max, but he’s gone. I spot him tucked away behind a wall further into the park, his head in his hands, and I wonder if this has become too much for him.

“I could’ve knocked his teeth in.” Sam’s brow is furrowed in a scowl.

“Do you really think he has PTSD or another anxiety disorder?” I ask. I’m concerned for Max, but I’m hyperaware of Sam’s closeness, goose bumps running up my arm. “He’s been in a funny mood all day.”

Max’s face is pale, his eyes wary, and his shoulder blades are pinched tightly together.

“I’ll go find Gillian,” Sam says. “I think he needs a medic or a call to his therapist.”

“Wait,” I say, and Sam stops, his shoulders tensing.

“I…” The words falter in my mouth. I want to tell him I’m sorry. That I wish I could go back a year and say yes that night at the bar. That I was so terrified back then that I pushed away the only good man in my life. But his body language is edgy and closed off.

“Thank you,” I say instead.

He grunts “you’re welcome” and walks away as my heart sinks like the heavy clouds overhead. It’s only three o’clock, but dusk is on the horizon.

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