“I don’t know. Do you own tights?” Her eyes sparkle.
“I’m a hockey player, Jessica. I’ve never done an axel in my life.”
“But you could, right?”
“No,” I say flatly.
“No?” she tilts her head.
“I’m not Sonja Henie.”
“Who?” she blinks.
“I’m not doing an axel,” I repeat.
She pouts. “Why not?”
“Because I like my knees attached to my legs.”
She shuffles closer and grips my sleeve. “Please? For me?”
She says please, and suddenly I want to pull a rabbit out of a fucking hat for her. I’d juggle knives if it meant seeing that smile again.
What the fuck is happening to me?
“I’m doing this only if you earn it,” I say. “If I land it, you skate to me across the entire rink on your own.”
Her jaw drops. “That’s far, Dominic.”
“Guess you better start praying I fall.”
Her face shifts from amused to panicked. She crosses her arms. “Fine. I’ll skate to you,” she says, pausing with a wink. “If you land it.”
All right then. Let’s see if I survive this.
I skate to the edge, take a deep breath, and replay what I’ve learned over two decades of skating: the approach, knee bend, torque, air rotation, and landing backward on one foot. Right. Easy. I’m so fucked.
I take off slow, then faster, building momentum in tight crossovers. I bend my knees, angle my body, and hop.
Spin. Land.
My blade carves a clean arc as I glide out, arms out for balance. My chest heaves, but I’m standing. Bothlegs attached, ankles intact. Holy shit, I just did a fucking axel.
I skate backward to center ice, arms wide, expecting applause—and I fucking get it. Jessica cheers, clapping and smiling. I’ve played in sold-out arenas, heard thousands scream my name, lifted trophies. But her one giddy cheer thunders louder than all of them combined. Something warm sizzles in my chest, and I reel it back.
“Now,” I say, skating backward and holding out both arms, “get your pretty ass over here.”
Jessica narrows her eyes. “You think my ass is pretty?”
“If you don’t hold up your end of the deal, I’ll make it prettier with my bite mark on it.”
Her cheeks flush and she scoffs, steeling herself and starting toward me—clumsy, stiff-legged. “Bend your knees a little,” I call. “Not that much… good. Slow pushes that pick up momentum naturally. Don’t look down.”
“I’m looking everywhere,” she says, wobbling.
“I can see that.”
I let her go a few more feet before pushing off, gliding straight toward her, and catching her around the waist as her balance tips. Her hands grab my arms, breath shallow.
