Director Hannah appears summoned by her name alone. She claps me on the shoulder. “That was either a daring artistic move or a smooth recovery. Either way, let’s make sure you’re okay and work on the jump tomorrow at rehearsal.”
I nod, and then she moves on to wrangle the next group of skaters.
I head for the dressing room with Charlotte trailing behind me.
“Seriously,” she says, lowering her voice, “are you sure you’re okay?”
I check the bruise that’s already blooming purple beneath my tights. “I’ll live. I’ve had worse.”
She hands me a cold pack. “You’re insane, you know that?”
“Pretty much.”
Insane, and seriously bruised.
CHAPTER 8
CONNOR
There are two kinds of falls in figure skating. The first is, at its base, due to gravity. There is blood and bone involved, and you’re made humble by the slick apathy of the ice. That one hurts, but you tape it and move on.
The second is more insidious, and I can’t tell if it’s better or worse, because the bruise is on the inside. The minute Grace didn’t launch into her jump correctly, my stomach cratered. I knew I was too far away to catch her. There was nothing to do but watch her crash down hard onto the ice in front of thousands of people. But then she stood up so fast the whole thing almost looked planned.
Except there weren’t hip guards under her costume. And there was pain under the smile she flashed at the audience.
Now she’s rushing out of the arena to hide. Which is how I know she must be more hurt than she let on to our director.
I follow her out of the dressing room and into the various backstage corridors.
“Grace,” I call.
She stops dead, so abrupt another cast member almost slams into her. She doesn’t turn. Doesn’t have to—omegas can sense an alpha coming from fifty yards and hate it every step.
I jog to catch up. “Are you okay?”
She finally looks at me with her brown eyes. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You hit pretty hard. Didn’t want to leave without making sure you’re—” I don’t finish, because Grace’s glare could sand paint off a car.
“Connor, you’re not my dad. Or my coach. Or my—” She catches herself, the word pack stuck in her teeth. She sucks in a breath. “If every time I take a spill, you’re gonna play alpha, we’re both in for a long summer.”
“It’s not ‘playing alpha,’ it’s being considerate.”
Grace snorts loudly. “Nowyou want to be considerate?”
Any remaining cast in the hallway go silent and leave us alone. Nobody wants to be caught in this crossfire. Even Charlotte didn’t follow Grace out here.
“Okay,” I say, “okay. I’m sorry. I just— That fall looked like it hurt, and I thought—” I gesture, helpless.
Grace’s jaw tightens. “I’m fine. I’ve been falling my whole life. It’s how you get good.”
“I know.”
She keeps her eyes on me, just long enough to make it hurt. “Then why are you hovering?”
I open my mouth, and for once, words don’t rush in. I want to sayBecause I care. OrBecause this is all my fault, and if I could take the fall for you, I would. But what comes out is, “It’s not about the fall. It’s about how you looked before it.”
She flushes, color high on her cheeks. “I was off-balance. It happens.”
