I stopped at the rink entrance.
Sean stood at the edge, wearing full skates, a second pair resting beside him on the rubber mat.
“Is this your idea of public humiliation therapy?” I narrowed my eyes at the skates as if they were plotting my downfall—betrayal by footwear.
“Yes,” he said grinning. “But also, you owe me one clean lap without clinging to the boards like a life raft.”
I eyed the ice, skeptical. “One day. Maybe.”
He chuckled.
“And that wasn’t clinging. It was strategic survival from a very slippery situation,” I added.
He glided in a smooth arc and leaned casually on the boards, charm turned all the way up. “Consider this your redemption arc.” He stuck his hand out. “C’mon.”
He stared at me with the same steadiness he’d had in that hotel suite—I could unravel, and he’d still hold the ground beneath me. That look made me feel anchored, even in the middle of this emotional minefield. And I realized how much I wanted to feel that way.
Minutes later, I was lacing up a pair of borrowed skates under the watchful eyes of a man who could trip my heart faster than my feet ever could.
It was déjà vu from two weeks ago. Sean easing me toward center ice, then trying to let go of my hand.
I tightened my grip on his fingers and shot him a look. “Another one of your sneaky, coachy spins.”
He chuckled, low and warm. “If ‘coachy’ wasn’t a thing, it is now per Mel Boyd.” He bent and whispered in my ear, “I got you, always.”
His breath tickled my skin, and a warm shiver ran down my back.
I let go of his hand.
He slid behind me, placing both hands on my hips. “Same drill as last time. You’ll feel more stable for the gentle side-to-side shift. Try using your arms for balance instead of hanging on to my hand. I’ve got you.”
His voice was low and steady against the back of my neck, his hands warmer than any coach’s had a right to be—firm, guiding, his closeness radiating heat into my back. He wasn’t just teaching me balance on the ice, he was showing me how it felt to lean on someone without falling.
Still shaky, but less than before, I followed his rhythm. I could picture the subtle pull of his muscles as he swayed me left andright, the tattoo on his upper arm shifting with each controlled motion.
What did the tattoo mean? I’d only glimpsed it in the hotel room, too busy fending him off with a hair dryer to look closely. And I wasn’t about to start discussing his biceps now, even though they were definitely discussable.
With every glide, I felt less fear, less second-guessing, more trust in the ice beneath me, and in him.
He punctuated our slow laps with soft, grounding cues.
“Relax… breathe.”
“Let your body lead.”
“You’re moving with more ease now.”
“Good… let’s keep that flow going.”
His voice wrapped around me, his hands steady and strong on my hips, and everything else fell away. The headlines, the whispers, the pressure. It was just me and him, my body moving through space, his voice anchoring me. The only real headline that mattered was that I felt safe with him, even on ice. Especially on ice.
After a few more slow laps, Sean guided us back to the edge of the rink. I gripped the boards to steady myself while he stepped off and reached back for me.
“You did good, for a Bathroom Girl,” he teased.
I huffed a laugh, the first real one all day. My legs were shaky as I stepped off the ice, but the knot in my chest had loosened, and the headache was gone.
We unlaced our skates and left the arena.
