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He smirks. “Kinda funny that if you hadn’t come to my practice when we were five, you’d probably be doing ballet or something right now.”

A laugh bubbles out of me. He’s not wrong. He was playing hockey by the time he was five, and one day, I begged my mom to take me to his practice. It was cool, seeing him in his element. But the moment I saw a figure skater, how graceful her movements were, how easy she made the jumps and spins look, I fell in love. Less than a week later, I was stepping onto the ice with a group of girls under the sharp supervision of Elena. I still love it just as much, if not more.

“You’re welcome, by the way,” he teases, ruining the moment.

I scoff and tug my hand away from him. “You’re impossible.”

Rather than let go, he tightens his hold. “Not true.”

My cheeks heat, and my heart thumps faster in my chest. It’s a sensation I’ve never experienced before, strange but not terrible. I’ll ask Mom about it. There’s nothing she doesn’t know.

Sighing, I rest my head against my own headrest. “Fine. Maybe you’re right.”

“I always am.”

My responding snort is half-hearted, and we fall into a comfortable silence. My hand is still in his, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world.

CHAPTER THREE

she’s my best friend

MICHAEL

Twelve years old

We’re all lined up by the boards while Coach talks about tonight’s drills, but I’m barely listening. My eyes keep drifting across the rink to where Isla’s skating her program one more time before her time is up.

“Thompson.”

I snap my head back toward Coach. He stares at me with an eyebrow raised. “Are you even listening?”

Asher snorts beside me, clearly finding the situation amusing.

My cheeks burn, and I shift uncomfortably. “Yeah,” I lie.

Coach shakes his head and then focuses on other boys, continuing his explanations. The moment he isn’t paying me any attention, I glance over my shoulder at the other side of the rink again. My heart misses a beat as I catch sight of Isla. She’s no longer skating. Instead, she’s sitting on the ice, cradling her leg.

Without thinking, I turn and hurry toward her. The guys call after me, but I ignore them.

She lifts her head as I approach. Her deep blue eyes are watery, and from the way she’s pursing her lips, I know she’s trying not to cry.

I kneel beside her and take off my helmet. “Hey. Are you okay?”

She nods, sniffling.

“Did you fall?”

“Kinda,” she mumbles. “I went for the Double Salchow. It was my fifth attempt, and I was getting better each time, but this time, my takeoff was wrong. I caught the edge too early and under-rotated, so my landing was awkward. I probably twisted my ankle.”

I tear off my glove and brush wild locks of hair from her face. “Do you need help?”

“Please.” She gives me a small smile.

As I help her up, Coach blows the whistle; based on the sounds of the skates scraping the ice, everyone pushes off the boards for the first drill. Everyone except me. A twinge of panic surges through me when Coach’s disappointed face flashes in my mind. He’s not going to be happy.

“Your practice just started.” Isla’s voice rips me out of my thoughts.

“Yeah, it did,” I murmur as I guide her to the boards.