“That edge work was shit, Everett.”Brody barely looks up from his clipboard as he says it, and I scowl his way. “You can do better.”
“You’re not paying attention. How can you be sure it wasn’t perfect?”
“I see everything.”
“That’s obnoxious,” I mumble under my breath.
“I heard that, Ice Queen.”
“I’m going to grab some water,” I tell him, heading for my bag.
Back at the bench, I hop on the boards and tug on my pink skirt, looking out at the ice. A deep breath helps. So does trying to recenter my thinking, but before I can get too deep in my thoughts, Brody is standing in front of me.
His presence is impossible to ignore. Backward hat, trimmed beard. Black joggers and a plain white shirt, he puts his hands on his hips and tips his head to the side.
“Hannah. Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” he asks.
“It’s stupid.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.” After a long pause, he adds, “I’m not sure anything you’re thinking or feeling could ever be stupid. What happened to being honest with each other?”
What happened is I’m a fucking liar, because ever since Thanksgiving and the night we ran into each other at that goddamn bar, I can’t get him out of my head. I can’t get over the feel of his hand on my knee, the weight of his gaze on my thighs, the flash of heat behind his eyes.
I might not know everything about Brody Saunders, but I know he’s not a man who plays games. He’s meticulous, intentional about everything he does, and those touches?
They weren’t accidental.
Hemeantthem, and I don’t know what to do with that information.
Friends my ass.
“There’s a big figure skating competition in Japan this weekend,” I blurt, the words tumbling out of me without warning. “If I hadn’t dropped out of the event I was supposed to skate in back in November, I might be there too. I’m grappling with this version of life where I’m not going to be one of the best skaters in the world this year. I haven’t been the best skater in the world inmanyyears, and that feeling of… of resentment? Of inadequacy? It’s only being made worse by the fact that I can’t do a basic edge control drill correctly.”
Brody doesn’t say anything. There’s no rebuttal, no attempt to make me feel better.
He juststares, and the pressure is immense. Relentless no matter how hard I try to glance away, and the look he’s pinning me with makes me squirm.
“Change of plans.” His voice is a rough rasp. A caress against the inside of my thigh. “We’re cutting out of here early.”
“Early? It’s not even noon. Where are we going?”
“Somewhere else. You hungry?”
“No.” My stomach picks that moment to rumble. “Fine. I might be hungry.”
“Are you a fan of burgers?”
“I don’t trust anyone who isn’t.” My lungs deflate, wary. “I know what you’re doing. You’re deflecting so I don’t think about the problem at hand. You’re redirecting my thoughts. That kind of psychology won’t work on me, Coach.”
“I’m not doing anything besides offering you food, because that’s a requirement for survival.” He hitches his thumb over his shoulder. “Let’s go.”
“Okay, Daddy, calm down,” I say, proud of myself when his hand flexes at his side. “Don’t you have a game tonight?”
“I do, but I don’t need to get to the arena until four. Plenty of time to eat a burger.” Brody leads the way to the tunnel and I follow him with my bag and gloves and questioning how I wound up climbing into his Cadillac Escalade and relaxing into the heated seats he turns on. “Warm enough?”
“Yeah. Thanks.” I hold my hands up to the air vents, sighing as the cold from the rink slips away. “Who are you playing tonight?”
“The worst team in the league. Which means we’ll either win by one goal or lose by eight.” He checks his mirrors, putting the car in reverse and pulling into traffic. “Have you been to a game yet this season?”
