Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 113072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
“Zoe,” he says quietly. “When I watch you skate, I don’t get the feeling you’re finished. It looks to me like you’re just getting started.”
Her brown gaze finds his and holds it. “I think so, too,” she whispers. “Maybe it’s just ego, but I think I have a real shot. If I can shut out all the voices. All the armchair quarterbacks. And just skate.”
He leans back in his chair, and nobody says anything for a minute. But it’s the nice kind of silence—the comfortable kind. “I gotta say—I can’t imagine training for something that only happens every four years. I don’t envy you that. Five minutes and it’s, like, your whole career.”
“Four minutes,” she says with a slow smile. “The men have to go on for four and a half.”
“Hey—four and a half minutes isn’t very long for a guy.” He winks, and she groans.
Then she opens the pizza box and plucks out an olive, popping it into her mouth. “God, I could marry this pizza. Thank you for this.”
“You’re welcome,” he says, his voice deepening. Her gratitude puffs him up with some kind of weird caveman energy. As if he’d hunted this pizza down on the wild plains, pierced it in the neck, and dragged it back to the cave for his woman.
“What else did your mother use to say?” she asks quietly. “If you don’t mind me asking. She sounds more fun than my coach. I mean… you’ve met her.”
“She was fun,” he says immediately. “Even before competitions, she’d be cracking jokes and making everybody smile.”
“Did you really compete?” she asks, her eyes darting back to take him in. “I’m having trouble picturing it. What music did you use for your free skate?”
“Well, Zoe, I had impeccable taste, even as a child. My first routine was set to the Ghostbusters theme.”
He catches her mid-bite, and she narrowly avoids choking. “Wow.”
“In my defense, I was eight.” He waves his arms around. “Who ya gonna call…”
She smiles again, and it feels like winning the Super Lotto.
“My greatest hits also included a Star Wars theme, as well as the Pirates of the Caribbean. But come on, now. You must have used something stupid at some point.”
“Oh, I wanted to,” she admits, grabbing her water for a swig. “But I got shot down. I gave everyone the silent treatment for a week when they wouldn’t let me use a Justin Timberlake song.”
“Uh-oh.” He cringes dramatically. “Which one? I need to know how bad an idea this really was.”
“‘My Love,’” she says with a nervous little smile. “I was twelve. At the time, I thought it was the highest expression of me as a person. Or maybe I just wanted to twerk on the ice and look cool.”
“Like you weren’t already the coolest girl at the party? Please.”
She gives him the side-eye. “I’m not sure you understand how cool works. I’m only cool when I’m skating, and sometimes not even then. And forget parties. I was always getting up for six a.m. ice time, or driving to a competition.”
“Yeah, I know something about that,” he agrees, because the hockey practice schedule is pretty grueling, too. “That’s why the party has to be up here.” He taps his temple. “After a long day, you order a pizza for a pretty girl, you play some tunes. I can have fun wherever I am. And if I break a few rules? Even better.”
The compliment lands, and she blushes a rosy shade of pink. “Thank you for the pizza. I can pay you back.”
“That’s not how we’ll do this,” he says. “You get the next one.”
She bites her lip and turns her big brown eyes on him again. “All right. It’s a deal.”
Chapter 9
Present Day
People I don’t hear from over the next twenty-four hours: Moreau, who skipped the session he’d booked with me. Or Chase Merritt.
People I hear from instead: my mother, who sends over a list of terrible job openings, all in cities far from New York. And my ex, who still thinks there’s a chance I’ll join a Las Vegas skating revue.
Things are not going well. And every time I close my eyes, I flash back to three ugly words on a piece of paper. Go home, bitch.
But I won’t. I’m too stubborn.
Instead, I put in some quality hours in my new cubicle on the fourth floor. I watch game tape and fill my notebook with personalized lesson plans for every player. And I mentally rehearse what I’ll say to Chase when I see him again.
Hi, Chase, let’s start over. I’m sorry I got you fired from a job ten years ago. But that only happened because I fell for you like the coyote in a Road Runner cartoon—swiftly, and with terrible consequences. After our train wreck, I spent the next year crying in my room after skating practice, wondering why you wouldn’t take my calls.