Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 97037 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97037 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
“Torn,” Natalie Imbruglia.
God, she’s still obsessed with that song? A smirk pulls at my lips as she does a lap, skating like she was born to. She may have aged, but on the ice, she looks just like her younger self. She does some simple little moves, a twirl here and there, but mostly, she just skates. The grief, anger, and annoyance that plagued her features earlier are gone. Replaced by pure solace only the ice can bring her.
My ice princess is home.
CHAPTER
FIVE
Fable
I skate for almost two hours before I decide I am calmed down enough to go home. After taking off my skates, I get dressed then make sure to lock up before I head out onto the street. I walked here since the rink is only a block away from my family home. My mom tried to insist on a driver for me growing up, but I always walked. It just made more sense, and given that she’s an environmentalist, you’d think she’d want me to walk.
But Elena loves to show off her wealth.
God, I can’t believe I’m back here. I roll my eyes in frustration, not wanting to go back as I start toward my family home. I don’t get far when a chill runs down my spine, and I have the urge to look behind me. Nothing seems amiss as I glance over at the Ice Thistle. The building is large, a steel structure with huge windows showing off the inside of the rinks. The outside is manicured to perfection, with tall trees and azalea bushes. Kitty does the landscaping. Because of the building’s massive size, it holds four rinks, a gym, and a spacious lobby for families and teams to gather during off-ice time. A basement holds all the equipment, and the upstairs contains the offices.
When I glance up, I see a big banner hanging from the roof of twenty-one-year-old me in the middle of a twist. Along the bottom of the sign are my name and the words “Three-Time Olympic Gold Medalist.” The banner looks brand-new, as if it was just replaced, which doesn’t surprise me. Phillip was one proud grandpa when it came to my skating achievements. What does surprise me is the other banner, which shows the shot of the ending of Jett’s and my free skate. Jett is holding me passionately, his arms tight around my waist as I hang from his grasp. He’s gazing down at me with a look of awe as one of my arms is clutched around his neck and the other is extended toward the ice. My head is thrown back, pure bliss on my face as I smile so widely I can almost still feel that moment.
Jett Cook and Fable Winthrop
USA’s Golden Pair
Salt Lake City Olympics
It’s like being knocked back twenty years in an instant. I remember so clearly how that skate started.
Because all our skates started the same.
“Just close your eyes,” he whispers against my ear. I slowly move my hands up his arms to wrap around his neck. His hair is short, and I miss the curls that usually gather under my fingers. I press my forehead to his chin as I sigh deeply. I am shaking with nerves, but his voice soothes me. Against the spot between my eyes, he tells me, “It’s only you and me.”
I smile at the memory before something demands my attention. I feel my breath catch when my eyes settle on where Jett is standing behind a huge glass window that is situated between the two banners. He’s larger-than-life, his arms crossed over his muscular chest as he looks down at me. His eyes are so dark, his brow furrowed as our gazes lock. Even from here, I’m stunned by his thick, dark lashes framing dark-brown eyes that, as the setting sun hits just right, glitter with gold flecks. His jaw is covered with dark hair, neatly groomed and shiny. He’s wearing a fitted dark-green Ice Thistle tee that is pulling tightly over his shoulders with how his tattoo-covered arms sit across his chest. I know for a fact that Hazel designed and tatted him. I’ve always wanted a tattoo by her. He’s wearing some fitted jeans, his tree-trunk thighs making the fabric strain. He has wrinkles along his forehead, around his eyes, and it’s plain as day that he isn’t the boy I knew.
Nope. Jett Cook is all man.
I don’t smile, nor do I wave. I only gaze at him the same way he does me. Is this how it’s going to be? Us just staring without saying a word? Why do I feel tension between us? While he did leave me to live his dreams, I understood. I got it. I don’t hate him. I don’t feel anything for him.
Okay, I feel something, but it doesn’t matter.