My timing slipped half a beat. I caught it late, overcorrected, and nearly clipped the barrier as I came out of the turn. The blade chattered beneath me before I forced it back under control.
Wonderful.
I pushed harder into the next pass.
That turned out to be another mistake.
The jump launched crooked, my landing edge too steep. The boards arrived a lot faster than expected, but I avoided them. I twisted out of it at the last moment and shot past the barrier close enough that my shoulder almost made contact.
“Do that again,” Mark called.
I circled back toward center ice. “You know, most people start conversations with good morning.”
“You want praise for almost decapitating yourself before breakfast?”
“Bit harsh.”
“Again, Dean.”
I reset automatically and pushed back into the sequence, every movement technically correct, but at the same time, absolutely none of me was inside it.
I knew Mark would pick up on that. The man saw everything.
By the time I coasted back to the boards, sweat cooling beneath my jacket, Mark was waiting with that infuriatingly patient expression coaches perfected after years of dealing with athletes determined to implode in creative ways.
“You’re thinking too much.”
I bent to snap guards onto my blades. “Interesting diagnosis. Did medical school reject you, or was it mutual?”
Mark stayed quiet for a moment before speaking again. “This about your dad?”
Shit.
“Partly.” That wasn’t exactly a lie.
His eyebrows arched.
A coffee appeared in my line of sight before Mark could answer.
“How’s the reigning team event champion?”
David Winton stood there in a camel coat, scarf hanging loose around his neck, looking offensively awake for this hour of the morning. He kissed Mark on the cheek before handing him one ofthe cups, then gave me a pointed stare, still clearly expecting a response.
I forced a chuckle. “Still traumatized by NBC replaying my free skate every seven minutes.”
“As they should.” David gave me an approving glance. “You were amazing.” He pulled a creased envelope from his pocket, and held it out to me. “Can I have your autograph, Mr. Foster? That might make me a few bucks someday.”
A laugh escaped me before I could stop it. That was David’s talent. He could walk into tension and defuse it in thirty seconds flat.
“Thanks for that, hon,” Mark said with a smile. “First time he’s looked human this morning.”
David cocked his head. “You okay, kid?”
The question was casual, and easy enough to answer honestly.
“I will be.”
David studied me for a second or two before nodding. Then he leaned over and kissed Mark’s cheek again. “I’m gonna leave you two to your brooding sports movie moment.”
