Great.An assignment.Which means she’ll be a pain in my butt. I don’t have time for a figure skater with an attitude.
“This is a joke, right? Why does she need me to help her?”
“Her partner is currently injured, and she needs a practice partner. Someone who skates well.” He eyes me for a beat. “And you already know her.”
My stomach drops. There’s only one person he could mean, and there’s no way on God’s green earth I’m working with her.
I shake my head, hoping this is a cruel joke. “Coach, this is a bad idea.”
“You don’t have a choice,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “Either you work with her, or you’re off the team.”
“Fine,” I grind out. “But this is a mistake, and you know it.”
Coach gives me a look that says he’s enjoying this far too much. “Possibly. I know my daughter can be a real pain. But I think you’re just the man to handle her. After all...” He pauses, and his lips curve into a grin. “You did know Victoria pretty well back in college, didn’t you?”
TWO
victoria
Irun my finger along the rough edge of the key in my pocket, the one I swiped from my dad’s spare key ring as the December winds whip my hair around.
Breaking into the Ice House Arena where my dad works? Not my proudest moment. But desperate times call for desperate measures. My two measly hours of free rental time a day aren’t cutting it—not when my competitors are out there skating circles around me with unlimited ice time.
Nationals are a little over a year away, and thanks to my rotten luck, my partner is out of commission after tearing his meniscus at the beginning of November in a bad fall. Perfect timing. No partner, no progress. But I can’t let that stop me. So here I am, sneaking into a rink, because I can’t afford to pay for more rink time, not on a skating teacher’s salary.
I slide the key into the back door where the hockey team usually enters and twist, listening for the faint click. Then I rush to turn off the security system, punching in the code like I’m Tom Cruise in the nextMission: Impossible.
When the blue light flashes, signaling success, I let out a relieved breath. The rink is mine tonight—no interruptions, no unsolicited advice, and no partner criticizing my foot placement. Just me, the ice, and my trusty Taylor Swift playlist.
Well, and the slight risk of getting caught for breaking and entering, but I double-checked the schedule. No one’s supposed to be here.
I hurry down the hall, then find the door to the rink. I tie up my skates and pop in my earbuds before starting “I Can Do It With a Broken Heart”on my playlist. I warm up my legs, feeling the slow rise of the music while timing a triple axel in my head. I rise into the jump, ready to nail it, when somewhere behind me a door slams.
The noise throws off my timing and I stumble just as I lift off the ground. There’s no way to save face when you miss a jump, so I brace my hands before hitting the ice hard. When I slide to a stop on my butt, I’m already rehearsing what I’ll say when the cops arrest me.
But it’s not the police.
It’s worse.
Standing on the other side of the rink is a guy I know all too well, his ice-blue eyes locked on me with the same permanent scowl I remember from college.
Of all the rinks in all the world, he had to walk into this one.
Leo the Ego Anderson.Hair falling over his piercing blue eyes, muscular build—of course he’s only gotten better looking over time. I’ve always dreamt of this moment—of running into Leo and hoping his jaw would drop when he saw me again. Instead, he looks at me like I’m his worst nightmare.
He crosses his arms and frowns at me. “What are you doing here?” he asks, his tone colder than the ice under my skates.
“Hello to you, too,” I snap, brushing off the ice shavings stuck to my leggings. Heat rushes to my cheeks, my body ferociouslyaware of him in ways it really shouldn’t be. Especially not when he’s looking at me like I’ve personally ruined his life.
He drops his bag on the bench next to mine, his movements sharp. “No one’s supposed to be here.”
I rub the sore spot on my palm. “So?”
“So, you’re trespassing.”
I blink at him. “I’mtrespassing? What makes you think that?”
He lifts an eyebrow. “Because back in college, you had a habit of swiping the coach’s keys so we could sneak into the rink.”
