Page 30 of Hooked On Them

Both. As in me and the baby currently setting up shop in my uterus. The baby that might be his. Or might be a player’s. A very talented, very stubborn player who happened to be a complete and utter asshole.

The player who, thankfully, I was not currently coaching.

For the past thirty minutes, I’d been working with Miles on a few issues that had cropped up since the season started. Unlike certain other players, Miles took direction without argument, making small adjustments based on my feedback without a single eye roll or smart-ass comment.

As Miles moved through the drill again, I stared off into space. It had been a problem during every single one-on-one session today, but thankfully none of the players had noticed.

Except for Miles.

“You seem distracted.” Miles came to a stop beside me. “Everything okay?”

I blinked, snapping back to the present, and loosened my grip on the stopwatch, realizing how tightly I’d been clutching it. “Sorry. Just tired.”

I forced a smile, guilt pinching at my insides. I hated lying, even by omission, but I couldn’t exactly blurt out, “Actually, I’m pregnant, and I’m waiting to find out if your best friend is the father so I can determine if my career is completely screwed!”

Instead, I demonstrated the next transition sequence I wanted him to practice, pushing off into a backward crossover that flowed into an inside-to-outside edge change.

“You’re losing about half a second on the switch from backward to forward; enough time for a defender to catch you instead of you breaking free.”

Miles nodded, watching intently. “Show me again?”

I repeated the movement, emphasizing the weight shift that powered the change of direction. As I finished, a strange weightlessness swept over me, like stepping off a curb I hadn’t seen. I recovered quickly, hoping Miles hadn’t noticed.

No such luck.

“You okay?” His forehead creased with concern.

“Fine. Turned too fast.” I waved away his concern. “Your turn.”

To his credit, Miles dropped it and focused on the drill. He executed the sequence with near-perfect form, making the minor adjustments I suggested.

“Much better.” I nodded approvingly after his fifth run. “That’s exactly what I’m looking for. I think we can call it a night.”

I glanced at the digital display on the scoreboard, the bright red numbers declaring it was nearly nine. The facility had that special kind of emptiness that only came after hours, with just the low hum of the cooling system and the occasional echo of a door closing somewhere in the distance.

Miles took a long drink from his water bottle, a few drops escaping to trail down his chin. He wiped them away with the back of his hand, studying me with that quiet intensity that made me wonder how much he actually noticed. “You heading home to get some rest?”

“I thought I might get some skating in first. It’s been a while since I’ve had the ice to myself.” The idea of going home to stare at my phone and overthink everything had zero appeal. What I needed was to lose myself in a playlist of angsty pop songs and the meditative rhythm of edges carving ice.

“Mind if I hang around and watch?” Miles’s tone was deliberately light in that way people use when they’re trying very hard to sound like they don’t care about the answer. It was the same way he’d sound if he were asking about the weather while secretly hoping for a blizzard to cancel school.

“I don’t mind, but don’t expect any jumps.” I fiddled with the zipper of my jacket, the familiar click-click-click giving my restless fingers something to do. Even if muscle memory and my right leg could still carry me through them, it wasn’t worth the risk with my current situation. Should I even beonthe ice?

“No expectations.” He skated backward toward the bench, the soft scrape of his blades echoing in the empty rink. “I’ll sit here quietly and pretend I’m not judging your every move.”

“Charming.” I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help the smile tugging at my lips. Miles had a way of making his sass sound sweet.

As he settled onto the bench, taking off his bulky equipment, I pulled out my phone and connected it to the arena’s Bluetooth speaker system. I needed music that matched my mood: complicated, a little melancholy, but with an undercurrent of determination. I settled on a song and set my phone on the boards.

I skated to center ice, taking a moment to center myself. It had been weeks since I’d skated just for me—not demonstrating, not coaching, just... skating.

The first piano notes echoed through the empty arena. I closed my eyes, letting the music wash over me, feeling it settle into my bones. Then I pushed off, giving myself to the ice.

This wasn’t a choreographed routine but a collection of elements I loved, strung together by emotion rather than technical requirements. I started with a simple spiral, extending my free leg behind me as I glided forward, then transitioned into a series of three-turns and mohawks that followed the ebb and flow of the music.

For those few minutes, I wasn’t Nora Hastings, skating coach with a career in question. I was just... me. Moving across the ice like I’d been born to do it, like my body remembered who I was supposed to be. As the music built, I moved into a fast sequence of twizzles and then a layback spin.

I was so lost in the moment that I barely registered when the song ended and another began. I slowed, intending to stop, when Miles approached with his hand extended, a question in his eyes. Without thinking, I took it.

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