But to compete, she needs to feel safe on the ice.
"Your doctor said that you shouldn't skate?" I continuing my lazy laps around her. "I call bullshit onthat. I've seen you skate, Mollie. You're really talented."
I’ve been watching her for weeks. She’s longing to get back out on the ice, and she’s more than ready. She just needs to get over her fear.
"Gee thanks, dude. That makes me reconsider everything. My ankle is healed!"
She's so prickly. She's also kinda funny. I stop in front of her again, realizing that I’m not giving her the footage she needs. I'm not doing anything exciting, memorable, or particularly charming.
And that's what the fans want. They've put me in that box and trapped me there.
"Come on," I say, antagonizing her, because I can't help myself. She needs good footage of me, and she’ll get it if she gets on the ice with me. “You can do it, Squeak. Let me coax you out on the ice."
She nibbles on her plump lower lip. "You aren't going to let this go, are you?"
"Nope." I grin. "Might as well put on your big girl pants and get over your fear."
Her expression is too close to fear for my liking, but she hesitantly puts half a foot out. She's wearing Converse, as usual. Not the shoes I would choose for the ice. But she's also got a pair of wraparound cleats on the bottom. She's as safe as she's going to get.
"Come on. I'll grab a stick and a pile of pucks and just hammer them into the net. It'll be great footage."
Still nibbling her lip, she steps off the laminate and onto the ice. At first, she moves like she's never seen ice before, like she isn’t the same girl I've seen crush itin figure skating championships. But slowly, she seems to get her feet under her. At the very least, she stops looking down.
She’s fucking awesome. I’m really proud of her, though I don’t have any right to feel that way.
As promised, I grab a stick and a pile of pucks and start hitting them, using my slapshot on repeat and firing a whole row into the net. For a while, there is nothing but the scraping of her footsteps, the shush of my blades on the ice, and the soft thud of pucks hitting the back of the net.
Mollie wobbles; I’m already mid-swing and I accidentally miss the goal. She snaps another picture right as I throw my stick down in frustration, then grins at the screen. "Oh, that’s terrible. I'm keeping that."
"Delete it,” I demand.
"Absolutely not."
I point my finger at her, as if it’s possible to threaten her. "Mollie...”
"Alexander." She tilts her phone toward me so I can see the preview. My own face, unguarded and amused, looking like someone I don't recognize, stares back at me. "You’re having a mini-temper tantrum here. Your fans are going to think it’s hysterical."
Not really the way I like my fans to see me. I’ve spent years crafting my image, sandpapering off my rough edges so that all that’s left is the golden boy charm. But I already know better than to insist that Mollie delete one of her photos.
I roll my neck. "Can we be done? I'm ready to eat."
She shrugs. "I got what I need for now. This weekend, I want to get footage of you jumping in the lake and hanging out with the boys outside the rink."
"This weekend?" That pulls me up short. "You're going?"
Mollie's mouth tightens. "I'm taking Beck's cabin since he isn't going to be there. I was invited by the Coven."
That's what the women who work for the team call themselves. Makes sense; there is something slightly eerie about them putting their heads together, looking your way, then whispering furiously. Like they’re casting spells using locks of your hair.
"Right." I exhale. There go my plans for peace, quiet, and irresponsible drinking. "We'll talk about?—"
I hear her fall rather than see it. A loud thud, then her phone skittering away. Shit!
I whirl and skate to her. She is red-faced, sitting on her ass, legs splayed out. She looks dazed.
"Are you okay?" I ask, kneeling to help her up. "Where'd your phone go?"
Her eyes have the sheen of tears. Fuck me, the champion figure skater is holding back tears from a simple fall.
