Page 74 of Skate the Line

My anxiety when a man touches me doesn’t help any either.

“Great.” I give Rhodes a thumbs-up with my good hand. He rolls his lips together to hide a cocky smirk and turns to leave me be.

I wait until he’s gone to look in the bag he threw on my bed.

He and Ellie must have gone on a shopping spree while at the rink because there are several Blue Devils shirts, a sweatshirt, a beanie, and a jersey inside.

They’re all the correct size too.

I smile as my fingers brush against the knit of the jersey, but to my surprise, it doesn’t have the number 87 stamped on the back beneath the last name Volkova.

It’s a 3, right belowBarlow.

Kane Barlow?

He bought me Kane’s jersey?

Weird.

I shrug and place it on my dresser before turning and glancing at the half-painted walls in my new bedroom.

Apparently, I have the day off, and I can't think of a better way to spend it than with the familiar wooden handle of a paintbrush in my hand.

Twenty-Six

RHODES

The word orgasmand Sunny should have no relation in my brain, yet all I hear is her friend’s voice talking about how my daughter’s nanny hasn’t had sex infar too long.

I wish I had never heard those words, because they’re playing dirty little tricks inside my head.

I kept my distance yesterday. Ellie and I spent the day together, even though I continuously had to remind her not to bother Sunny since it was her day off. I even pulled out theI’ll-teach-you-Russiancard, which is something I only ever do as a last resort to keep her entertained.

“Volkova.” I pop up from the sound of Coach’s voice.

He nods to his office while I continue lacing my skates.

Malaki whistles under his breath. “Daddy’s mad.”

Some of my teammates chuckle, but most are too focused on the game to pay much attention to Malaki’s jokes.

I walk past him and snort and slip into Coach’s office.

“Everything okay?” I stay close to the door. It’s nearly game time, and I like to get focused.

“I just wanted to tell you that I’ve noticed a change in you.”

Adjusting my pads, I furrow my brow. “Like?”

Coach Jacobs crosses his arms over his suit. “You are more attentive on the ice. Faster. Determined. You’re reminding me of the player you were several years ago.”

You mean I remind you of the player I was before I had another responsibility…like a kid.

Anger surfaces, but it’s quickly washed away becausefuck.It’s nice to hear.

He has children. They’re grown, but he gets it. It’s why he’s kept me on the team and has dealt with my sudden disappearances from practice and my inattentiveness on the ice.

“What changed?” he asks. “Is it because of Olson?”

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