“No shit, he’s good.”
Nico slows on the ice, skating by and looking out at the crowd. We lock eyes. And he smiles.
He smiles.
At me.
Chapter Four
Nico
I’m doing a solo practice. Getting an audience isn’t unheard of—at home or here. It’s happened each time I’ve been on the ice, and I see it plenty of times for others too. I’m not sure if it’s officially allowed, but as long as it isn’t the “enemy,” AKA our rivals, scoping us out, no one seems to care.
We’re all happy and excited to be here, all intrigued to be around so much talent. I’d love to watch the speed skaters practice if I get a chance. That was what I originally wanted to do before I learned how much fun jumping and spinning on the ice is.
But despite being used to an audience, there is one pair of eyes that I’m finding quite distracting—and nothing distracts me when I’m on the ice.
I don’t know who he is, but by his size I’d guess he’s a hockey player. Definitely not a figure skater or a speed skater. Don’t think someone that big would be on skis or a snowboard. Not luge… maybe curling? Regardless of what he does here, all he’s doing now is staring at me, and it makes me want to show off just a little. So, I do another run through of my routine, and of course I smash it. That’s why I’m here.
The music cuts off and doesn’t come back on. I look up at Coach, who gives me the thumbs up.
“Good job, Nico,” he calls out. “See you tomorrow.”
Tomorrow starts the team games, and I’ll be competing for my first ever Olympic medal. Though I’m confident in myself—I will go home with at least one medal this year—I can’t speak on my team. We’re good, don’t get me wrong, but there are some pairs who are better than us, and since we add points together, it doesn’t matter if one of us does perfectly. We all have to do well if we want to take home a team medal—that’s why it’steams.
I skate to the door and get off the ice, putting on my blade covers. I feel eyes on me still, so I look up and smile at the guy who’s still openly staring. He doesn’t smile back, but he doesn’t look away either. So, I walk over to him.
“I’m guessing subtle is not your middle name,” I say as I reach him, looking up into his bright green eyes.
Even in skates, he towers over me. He’s solid too. Definitely a hockey player.
“It’s Blake,” he says seriously.
I laugh. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not.”
“And I bet you don’t dothatmuch, do you?”
He just shrugs.
“Not much of a talker. You just like watching then? Or maybe… I’m special?”
“I was observing,” he says coolly.
“Of course. Observing. For… what? Pointers? Trying to steal my routine to throw off your hockey buddies?”
His eyes widen. “You know who I am?” He sounds shocked. Worried? Impressed? Proud? I can’t quite tell with him.
“Well, not exactly,” I admit. “But judging by your size and badge, I just assumed you’re notmycompetition.”
“You’re hard to ignore,” he says, brushing over my comment and going back to watching me. Like he has a one-track mind.
I lean against the boards, resting my elbows on it.
“I’ve heard that once or twice.” I lick my bottom lip, looking him up and down. Étienne is going to be so mad he missed this. “So, let me guess… you can’t understand why a man would want to figure skate? Don’t get it?”
“Oh, I get it,” he says with an eager head nod.
