Page 48 of On the Line

I skate forward until there’s barely any space between us.

“My skating was on fire that night,” she continues. “My jump was perfect. And I still got hurt. A nick in the ice? Overly fatigued muscles? My blade slipping? Who knows what caused it. If it was entirely out of my control, how can I prevent it from ever happening again?”

“So what you’re telling me is you had complete control of every part of the jump and performed it perfectly and that whatever went wrong was out of your control?”

“Yes, exactly.” She wraps one arm around her ribs, hugging herself, and holds onto the wall with the other arm.

“You can’t let what is impossible to control control you, or you’ll never grow. It’s called a freak accident because there’s no way to predict or prevent it. But freak accidents don’t happen over and over.”

I put my hands on her hips and pull her toward me gently, then spin myself around so I’m behind her, cradling her body in mine. I keep my hands on her hips, but dip my head down and ask, “How do you feel about actually moving again?”

“I feel ... less scared than before. But only if you don’t let go of me.”

As long as I’ve known her, she’s the woman against whom all other women have been measured. And no one else has even compared. I am a goner for her, and have been since the very first moment we met. I thought I’d lost her, but now that she’s back I have every intention of keeping her—no matter how slowly I have to take this until I’m certain she’s ready.

“Believe me, Lauren, there’s no way I’m letting you go.”

* * *

Colt glances out the window for the third time in as many minutes. The snow is coming down fast now, and later tonight this will be a full-fledged blizzard. “Dude, if you’re afraid of a little snow,” I say as I nod toward the door of my office, “go ahead. The new endorsement paperwork’s signed already.”

The sky is darker than it has any right to be at four o’clock. Derek’s already left because he wanted to catch the train before they shut down public transportation. Until now, we’ve had a relatively mild winter, so the media is really hyping up this storm.

“Nah, it’s fine.” He tilts his celebratory beer back, takes a long swallow, and then says, “So I heard you were at the rink Saturday night.”

“Yeah?” I take a sip of my scotch and wonder how this information reached him.

“With a girl.”

“Uh huh.”

“You going to tell me why you rented out the rink for her?”

“How the fuck did you know that?” I snap. Sometimes it feels like nothing I do is private, and I’m not ready for anyone to know how I feel about Lauren—except for her.

He lets out the bellowing laugh that, among other things, he’s famous for. “I guessed. They don’t just let people come in and skate whenever they want. Not even when they’re retired players. So, why did you need the rink to yourselves?”

It’s my turn to glance out the window. Shit, the snow’s going sideways now, which means the wind is picking up. There’s only about an inch on the ground, but with flakes this big, it’s going to start accumulating fast.

“She hasn’t skated in a while.”

“You don’t rent out a whole rink for a woman just because she hasn’t skated in a while. Who is she?”

“Just a friend.”

“You also don’t rent out the practice rink of a professional hockey team for a friend.” His voice has an annoyed edge to it. “Who the hell is this woman?”

I don’t mean to let the corner of my lips curve up, but the memory of Lauren’s face—that huge smile, and the way the happiness just radiated off her by the time we got off the ice—has been etched into my mind for the better part of a week.

“Wait,” Colt says, dragging his hand through his sandy-blond hair as he rolls the word out slowly. “Is this the same girl you were talking about a few weeks ago? The one you said would be good for that marketing job—waaait ...” His eyes get wide, like it’s all coming together in his mind. “Holy shit. The redhead?”

I take another sip of my scotch. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The hell you don’t. When AJ got done ripping me a new asshole about sleeping with that girl from marketing, she said I was lucky that the person you recommended for that position was better than the one who’d left it. And the person who has that job now is a hot redhead—”

I don’t mean to slam my glass down on my desk, but it has Colt raising both his hands in surrender, which is just fine with me.

My teeth are clenched together so hard when I say, “Do not fucking look at her.”

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