Page 37 of Pucking Christmas Triplets Surprise

I twist, landing awkwardly, and my body crumples to the ice, my knees digging into the cold surface as I hunch forward, trying to breathe through the wave of nausea washing over me. There is a pounding in my ears so loud I don’t hear when Christopher’s skates slice across the ice towards me. His warm fingertips pinch at my chin as he draws my gaze up to his.

“You’re almost there,” he says, his voice low but firm. I want to scream. To throw my skates across the ice and howl at the top of my lungs, but he eases me with a slow drawl. “You’re perfect, Josie.”

I scoff, rising off of my knees, drowning in his mesmerizing cerulean eyes. “But perfect isn’t enough for the Olympic committee. You need to be more than perfect. Youneed to be... unbreakable.”

His gaze pierces through me, and for a moment, the ice beneath me feels like it’s cracking, like I’m going to fall through it. I’ve never felt more broken than now. I want to tell him that I don’t even know where to begin to gather the broken pieces of me. I want him to hold me as I declare my Olympic career good and dead, but instead I nod.

“More than perfect.” I mutter, my eyes darting to the ice.

His fingers lace in the loose hair at the nape of my neck as he pulls my face toward him and kisses my forehead so tenderly I almost sob. He pulls back, that million dollar, golden boy smile blinding me. “That’s my girl.”

I close my eyes tight as he pulls back from me and I position myself to start the combination again.

Right. Left. Side. Tuck and...

I force myself up again, swallowing the sharp tang of bile rising in my throat. Each movement feels like I’m pulling myself from quicksand. I throw myself into the next spin, ignoring the sharp pang in my stomach and the exhaustion weighing down my limbs. But when I land, it's just as shaky as the last time, and the nausea hits me even harder.

Christopher calls out to me, his voice playful and firm at the same time, making my heart do backflips. “You’re not giving up on me now, are you?”

“Oh, sure she is.” An annoyed, growling voice rings across the rink, and I pause looking up into the bleachers. Dylan stands there in a cream ankle length puffer coat, pale yellow turtleneck, blue jeans and brown snow boots. I freeze, unable to breathe as I take in his appearance: his golden hair is overgrown, and his five o’clockshadow crowds his face. Before I can stop myself, I am skating backwards to put even more space between us, even though there is half of an arena.

“This is a closed practice.” Christopher snaps from only fifteen feet away from me, but it might as well be an ocean.

Dylan ignores Christopher, his eyes trained on me as he stomps down the bleacher steps. “You are a fucking failure. You are a waste of air, and you think that you can make it without me?”

I can’t speak, but I shake my head sharply, definitely, refusing to give in even as my body screams to push back, to retreat further.

Christopher steps forward, his posture shifting, shoulders squared and jaw clenched with raw intensity. His voice drops, low and lethal. “I said, this is a closed practice.” His gaze burns into me, but I don’t dare take my eyes off of Dylan. “Get the hell out before I make you.”

“Stay out of this. It’s between me and her,” Dylan barks, as he increases his speed down the stairs, closer to me. “Me and the bitch who kicked me out of the line up for tryouts. I fucking made you Josie. Created you with my own two fucking hands and this is how you repay me?”

My body runs a painful level of hot, the closer Dylan gets to me. Memories flood my mind - the last time he was like this, after he carelessly dropped me on the ice and I cracked my skull open, and we lost against the Dakota twins. Everyone thought my career was over. Everyone mourned my time on the ice, and a piece of me died in front of a crowd but that wasn’t enough for him. The pain pulses through my body, a constant reminder of that night. I can still feel the way he berated me, spewing curses and throwing objects at me even asI lay there with stitches in my head. My whole body trembled as I begged him to stop, apologizing over and over again.

“Dylan.” I whisper shakily, my hands gripping at the base of my sweater as if it is suffocating me.

“What? You get all the glory? And I get nothing?” Dylan screams, his eyes trained on me. He stands only a step away from the ice, thirty feet from me and five steps away from Christopher who is coiled so tight the veins along his neck screams.

“You step one foot on this ice, and I am going to beat your face into it.” Chris growls, but Dylan scoffs.

“What are you talking about?” I say, my hand out and heart beating so loud I can feel it in the soles of my feet.

Dylan takes a sheet out his pocket, reading it aloud with narrowed eyes. “Dear Josie Richards,” he sneers, voice dripping with mockery. “You are formally invited to audition for the position of solo figure skater representing Team USA at the upcoming Olympic Games. Your audition is scheduled for December 22nd.”

My chest tightens, and I feel the air leave my lungs in a rush.December 22nd. My audition.I can’t breathe. I’m not ready. A cold sweat breaks out along my spine. I can’t even think.

Dylan throws the letter onto the ice, his face contorted with rage. “I found this in the mail on your desk,” he spits.

Christopher's eyes narrow. “You were in her dorm room?” His voice is a low, menacing growl.

Dylan doesn’t even flinch. He turns his glare back to me, ignoring the dangerous energy radiating off Christopher. “I’ve been looking for you for weeks,” he says, voice cutting throughthe air like a blade. “But no one seems to know where you’ve been. Where the hell have you been sleeping, Josie?”

I take a step back, but I force myself to meet his eyes. “That’s none of your business, Dylan.”

He lets out a humorless laugh, the sound bitter and echoing through the rink. “None of my business? Really?” His fist curls at his sides and it takes everything in me not to flinch. “My skating partner has been MIA, probably screwing half the hockey team from what I hear, and now you’re just... dropping me?”

Christopher’s fists clench, his jaw tight. “Watch your fucking mouth,” he snaps, stepping closer.

Dylan’s eyes flick between us, his sneer deepening. “Why?” he taunts. “What, are you screwing her too?” He looks at Christopher with a smirk, his voice dripping with contempt. “Or was this your idea? Cut me out so the big, bad Christopher Jackson could have his perfect little story: hockey star turned Olympic gold medalist coach, now with a pretty new medal-winning partner. Couldn’t pay for that kind of publicity, huh?”

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