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Breathe.
I pull in a deep breath through my nostrils and exhale slowly through my mouth. The air is sweet with spring, the sun dazzling in the sky as it climbs, promising a warm day. As I look up at the white and blue sign on the front of the IceWorks arena, a fresh wave of excitement washes over me. I’ve wanted to train here for like, ever. The best facilities, the best coaches, the best skaters, all in one place.
I still can’t quite believe I’m here. The past twenty-four hours feel like some kind of fever dream. How was it only yesterday that my coach called me to tell me that Alex McIntyre—the Alex McIntyre—had requested a trial skate with me? Me. Me? Me!
Alex McIntyre is a legend in the skating world. He’s won world championships. He and his former partner won silver at the last Olympic games. He’s one of the best. No, scratch that. He’s the best. I’ve never met him, but I follow him on social media. His work ethic is unequaled. He’s driven and passionate.
He also looks like a freaking sex god, with his wavy brown hair that’s always falling across his forehead, movie star smile, and muscled body that looks like some very talented—and very horny—artist carved him out of marble. Or granite? Whatever. My point is, he’s hot and muscled and most women who lay eyes on him want to climb him like a tree.
Present company included.
No. No! Bad Cate. I can’t be thinking these things going into a trial skate with him. I need to be professional. The last thing I want is for him to take one look at me, see a star struck kid on the verge of swooning, and say no thanks.
So, I allow myself one little squeal, full of giddy excitement, and then I step inside. My wheeled bag rolls along quietly behind me as I take it in. The interior is bright, with light blue walls and brightly colored banners featuring some of the rink’s more famous skaters. My mouth goes dry when my eyes land on Alex’s picture. It’s an action shot, taken during his Olympic performance with Charlotte Pierce, his now retired partner, their arms around each other as they spin.
Staring at Alex’s picture is when the first brain weasel pops up.
He’s a world champion and Olympic medalist. Why on earth does he want you? You’re only known for almost cracking your head open on the ice.
I shiver slightly at the memory of the crash. Well, what I remember of it. The moments before and immediately after are a bit hazy, which I see as a blessing. If I remembered it in detail, I don’t think I’d be entertaining the idea of pairs skating again.
Staring at Alex’s picture, I shove the doubt aside. Obviously he saw something he likes if he asked for a trial skate, and that’s all there is to it. Stupid brain weasels. Get outta here.
I make my way to the women’s locker room, and I’m not entirely surprised that I’m the only one here. The competitive season ends with the world championships, which are usually at the end of March. April and May are the months when people perform in ice shows, take vacations, travel to work with choreographers, run skating clinics for younger skaters. By June, everyone’s back on the ice, working on their programs for the upcoming season.
Which means if this trial goes well and I start skating with Alex, we don’t have a lot of time.
I’m already dressed in my usual practice gear—white ballet sweater, plain black skating skirt, sheer black tights, and white leg warmers, so I quickly pull on my skates, smooth my long hair back in a high ponytail, and head for the ice, stomach quaking.
I will not throw up.
I see three people already on the ice, and I know it’s Alex and his two famous coaches, Deb and Scott. Don’t get me wrong, I love my coach Patrick. But if I had the chance to work with these two, I’d jump on it, and I don’t think Pat would blame me. It would be a massive step up.
Alex has his back to me, and he turns as I step out onto the ice, trying to school my face into something that doesn’t give away what a nervous wreck I am.
My heart skitters to a stop in my chest when his eyes meet mine and I almost catch an edge. I flail my arms slightly and manage to stay upright, thankfully not making a complete dork of myself.
Holy Mother of God. This man is gorgeous. Which I already knew. But seeing him in person…whew. Those warm brown eyes have me pinned in place as I take in his square jaw, his broad shoulders, his massive hands. He’s wearing a long-sleeved black Under Armour shirt and close-fitting black athletic pants, showing off all of that hard-earned muscle. He’s so much bigger than I was expecting. He’s got to be at least 6’2, maybe even taller.
He skates over to me, blades scraping quietly against the ice. We’re the only people in the arena this morning, making every sound carry and echo. Extending his hand, he smiles at me, and I swear my knees go weak. How am I supposed to skate if my knees are weak? I need to get my head together. Now.
“Hi,” he says, extending his hand. “I’m Alex. Thanks for coming today.”
I take his hand and shake it. It’s so much bigger than mine, and a tiny jolt of electricity races up my arm at the contact. “Cate. Thank you for inviting me.” I don’t know what else to say. I swallow. When did my mouth get this dry?
Alex is still staring at me, an unreadable expression on his gorgeous face. Then he takes my hand in his, effortlessly pulling me closer to him across the ice.
“Let’s skate a few laps,” he says, his legs already in motion. I nod and pump my legs to keep up with him, feeling the blood start to flow. The smooth glide of the ice beneath my blades calms me, as it always does. Skating has always been my happy place.
My hand feels hot and heavy where it’s nestled in his. “You’re nervous,” he says as we make our way around the perimeter of the ice. He seems to have effortlessly matched his strokes to mine. “Is it because of the accident? Is it me?” He tilts his head to the side, his voice low, his words only for me. “I only ask because if I know, then I can hopefully put you at ease.” He gives my hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze and my nipples immediately pebble in response.
It’s one of the sweetest, most attentive things a man has ever said to me. Not that I have a lot of experience with men because my entire life is skating, but still. It’s one for the mental scrapbook.
“Mostly you, a bit of the accident,” I answer truthfully. I figure we might as well start off with honesty. “Let’s call it…” I squint as I think. “Seventy-thirty.”
His eyebrows go up and he lets out a small, deep laugh. The sound rumbles in my belly in a way that makes me want to curl around him.
“Wow, seventy for me? I’m flattered.” He tilts his head toward me again, and I realize we’ve picked up speed, circling the ice with deeper strokes in perfect unison. A little thrill charges through me that we’ve already found a rhythm. It’s a good sign. “I’m not scary, I promise,” he says, speaking more quiet, secret words just for me. “I asked you to come skate with me today because I watched videos of you, and I was impressed. Beyond impressed.” He clears his throat softly, as if there are words lodged there. “You’re a beautiful skater.”
