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“Or you could just get your sister to send you some straight from Japan.”
He snorted. “Then I’ll never hear the end of it from Emi. I can be persistent. Better to teach a man to fish or something like that, isn’t that what they say?”
“That’s about right.”
Niko had mentioned that he’d lived in the US for a few years as a kid while his father was stationed there for a job. He’d spent first through fifth grade in an American school, which explained why his accent was mild and his grasp of English idioms not bad. There were still a few concepts he didn’t totally have down, though.
Like that everyone on this side of the ocean thought making pop out of milk was deeply bizarre.
He shook his empty thermos at me, grinning. “When I get it right, you’ll see. You’ll be guzzling it like you do that maple syrup you pour on everything.”
“Sure, and then I’ll land a quadruple Axel,” I said, but my mouth had stretched into a full smile despite my skeptical tone.
Over the past several weeks, Niko and I had settled into something like a comfortable routine. He badgered me onto the ice in his upbeat way and delivered his coaching instructions with boundless enthusiasm. When my muscles were aching, we trekked back through town to grab a bite to eat, quickly hash out how the practice had gone, and go our separate ways. Then the next day we started over again.
But tramping along beside him, uncertainty still niggled at me.
If I was going to compete again, there was no one better to coach me back into the circuit than Niko Okabe. The guy was like music on the ice; he had a way with both the artistic and technical aspects of skating that I’d always admired.
I'd watched him compete for Japan and had been blown away by his ability to paint a picture through motion. I wanted to do the same more than anything in the world.
There was a reason he’d made it to two Olympic Games, earning silver at the last one.
He’d never coached before, though, as far as I knew—at least not professionally. He hadn’t really explained why he’d tracked me down and insisted that he was going to whip me back into shape, only saying that he’d noticed my absence during the last sequence of competitions and decided he would see what he could do about it. That he’d been wanting a challenge.
Was that all he saw when he looked at me—a problem to solve? A difficult puzzle to work through to stretch his skills?
If it meant anything more than that, he certainly hadn’t given any indication. He was cheerful and friendly, sure, but always with a professional air.
The thought made me feel prickly again, but really, did it matter?
I wanted to be out there performing in front of the crowds again. If Niko was willing to help me get back into the headspace where I could, who was I to look a gift horse in the mouth?
This once, there was a car parked outside the arena—a light blue sedan I didn’t recognize. Most of the time the staff never showed up while we were practicing. Hopefully they weren’t messing with the ice.
Niko must have observed it too. Rather than fishing the spare key the owners had given him out of his pocket, he tried the door. It opened easily.
“Looks like I might not be the only one who gets to appreciate your talents today,” he said, tugging it wide.
“Unless they screwed up our scheduling and we’re about to walk into some six-year-old’s birthday party,” I muttered, but headed on inside behind him.
We found the reception area eerily vacant, just as it always was. I craned my neck down the short hallway, but the manager’s office was shut up tight too. No lights shone through the tiny window.
No party, then. Maybe a janitor was making the rounds?
As we approached the doors to the rink, a lilting melody filtered past them to my ears. My heart skipped a beat.
Someone was playing music in there. And not any kids, unless Chopin was the new standard for birthday parties.
I opened my mouth to call out and ask who was there. We’d booked this time, after all.
But Niko had already reached the doors and nudged them open. His hand jerked up to silence me as he stared through the gap.
Then he was off again, pushing right into the stands. I hustled after him, even more confused than before.
The second I burst into the rink area, my steps slowed.
The music was emanating from a small speaker perched on the boards around the rink, slightly tinny but the notes pealing clearly enough. And moving with the melody, a woman glided across the ice.
