PROLOGUE
Four Months Earlier
September
I’m notsure how I ended up being the player with a massive social media following, but it probably has something to do with my rugged good looks or the fact that I’m absolutely charming both on and off camera.
Our media team usually loves when I post behind-the-scenes stuff, community engagement, that kind of thing. It makes the team look good, makes the fans feel connected, and it’s basically the only part of my job that doesn’t involve getting hit by enormous humans on skates.
I’m at the downtown rink for an equipment donation pick for one of our youth programs, but I’m a week early because I didn’t actually read the email details, so I end up wandering around killing time, and when I hear skates on ice I follow the sound because content opportunities, right?
The rink holds a lone figure skater and the sound of herblades is sharper than hockey skates. I wander down to rink level and lean against the boards to watch because I’ve got nothing better to do.
She’s in all black, running through what must be a program. I don’t know anything about figure skating beyond what I’ve seen at the Olympics, but I know athleticism when I see it.
And I know when someone is completely in their element.
She picks up speed and launches into a jump. I count the rotations without meaning to. Two and a half. She lands it so smoothly it looks easy even though I know it’s not.
Then she sets up again. This time she goes higher, rotates faster. Three full rotations before she lands, her leg extending behind her in a line that seems impossible.
Holy shit.
I pull out my phone and film for maybe thirty seconds because she’s insanely talented and in my head I’m rationalizing this as a pitch for community relations. The NHL team that shares a training rink with local figure skaters. Except I’m honestly not thinking about content strategy. I’m thinking that I want to be able to watch this—watch her—again later.
She sets up for another jump and falls this time, hitting the ice hard enough that I actually wince because she’s got no protective padding on. But she’s back on her feet immediately, brushing ice shavings off her leggings, skating back to try it again like hitting the ice is just part of the process. On the second attempt, she lands it clean.
She moves through more footwork, another spin that seems to go on forever, then skates closer to my side of the rink to grab water from the bench which is when I get a clear look at her face for the first time.
She’s beautiful in a way that makes my brain stutter to almost a complete stop before starting back up again. Light eyes, sharp features, and an intensity in her expression that makes it clear she’s focused on exactly one thing and it’s definitely not me. My phone almost slips out of my hand and I grip ittighter.
She notices me watching. Our eyes meet for maybe two seconds.
Then she looks away like I literally don’t exist.
Right. Okay. I pocket my phone and leave before I can make it weird.
Back at the practice rink,I can’t stop watching that video.
It’s not even a minute of footage. Nothing special, just a figure skater doing her thing. Except I’ve watched it at least twenty times and I still can’t figure out what it is that makes me keep coming back.
The way she moves, maybe. Like she’s having a conversation with the ice.
Or the way she got back up after that fall without any drama or visible frustration. Just immediate problem-solving.
Or maybe it’s simpler than that. Maybe I just want to know what it feels like to be looked at that way.
I track down a couple of figure skaters who train at our facility. They rent ice time in the break between our morning skates and afternoon practice.
“Hey, question,” I say, approaching them as they unlace their skates. “You guys know any figure skaters around the area?”
They exchange a look. “There’s a lot of figure skaters in the area,” one of them says.
“Right. Sorry.” I pull up the video on my phone. “I saw someone training at the downtown rink. I was thinking about using it for team social media content maybe. Community athletes, that kind of thing. But I don’t know who it is.”
She takes my phone and watches, her eyes widening slightly. “Oh. That’s Juliette Chastain.”
“Juliette,” I repeat. Of course her name is Juliette. The universe and its constant sense of humor.
