Page 11 of Love and Other Penalties
Her voice slaps me from across the ice. “Sorry, I’m just?—”
“Unfocused.” She walks closer, her expression thunderous. “Your technique has been deteriorating all week. Your jumps lack commitment, your footwork is imprecise, and don’t even get me started on that pathetic excuse for a spiral sequence.”
Each word lands like a physical blow. “I’ve been practicing every day. The early morning sessions?—”
“Are clearly not helping.” Mom stops directly in front of me, close enough that I can see the disappointment etched in every line of her face. “You’retwo—weeksaway from the most important competition of your life, and you’re skating like a recreational skater.”
“Oh, come on,” I bite out. “I am not.” I’msomuch better than that, and I’m so sick of my mother pinning me down like this.At the same time, I can’t believe I’ve said anything. I usually just nod and hope Mom keeps lecturing so I can suck down enough water and catch my breath before she blows that blasted whistle again.
“What did you say?” Her voice rises, echoing off the empty arena walls. “Wasting the talent you were born with is such a shame. Throwing away everything we’ve worked for, because you can’t keep your head in the game.”
I want to defend myself again, snap back at her, tell her I’m trying my best, but the words stick in my throat. Because she’s not entirely wrong. Ihavebeen distracted. Every time I attempt a jump, I find myself thinking about Finn’s protective hand on my elbow when I stumbled. Every spiral reminds me of the way he watched me skate that first morning, like I was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
“Start it again,” Mom commands. “And this time, remember that you’re training for the Olympics, not a high school talent show.”
I skate back to center ice, my legs feeling heavy with more than just physical fatigue. The next two and a half hours are pure torture. Every jump feels forced, every spin wobbly. Mom’s criticism follows me around the ice like a shadow, her voice growing sharper with each mistake.
By the time she finally releases me, my legs shake with exhaustion and my confidence whips around me like a tattered sheet in the wind.
“Same time tomorrow,” she calls as I unlace my skates, as I’m still trying to catch my breath from the last round of torture. “And Ivy? Figure out whatever is wrong and fix it. Fast.”
six
. . .
Monday morning,I arrive at the arena fifteen minutes early, my heart racing with anticipation. I’m meeting my mother later, but Finn should be back today.
The parking lot is empty except for a familiar black truck, and relief floods through me.
Finn’s already on the ice when I emerge from the locker room, moving through stick-handling drills with the kind of fluid precision that makes my breath catch. He looks up when he hears my skates, and that dangerous smile spreads across his face.
“Morning, Kitten. Miss me?”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I say, but I’m grinning as I glide onto the ice. “I just missed having someone to race.”
“Is that a challenge?”
Before I can answer, another voice echoes across the arena. “Oh, for the love of—you two are already at it?”
Dax Rogers emerges from the tunnel, goalie gear making him look like a hockey robot. His mask is pushed up on his head, revealing a face that’s all sharp angles and mischief.
“Dax, meet Ivy,” Finn says, skating over to bump fists with his teammate. “Ivy, this is the guy who’s going to make our mornings infinitely more complicated.”
“Complicated?” Dax grins at me. “I prefer ‘entertaining.’ The tension in here is so thick I could cut it with a skate blade.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “There’s no tension—we don’t have—” I flap my hand toward Finn and then the rest of the arena.
“Oh-ho, this is even better than Finn described.” Clearly giddy, Dax looks between us like he’s watching the world’s most amusing tennis match. “You’re both completely gone for each other and trying to pretend you’re not.”
“Shut up, man,” Finn says at the same time I mutter, “Can we just practice?”
I don’t dare look at Finn before I push away from the pair of them. My whole body flames, and I’m surprised the ice isn’t melting around me with every step I take.
“Ivy, come back.” Dax claps his gloved hands together. “I have some drills that require teamwork. Your boy here needs some hand-stick-puck…coordination.”
“You have got to be kidding me.”
Dax is not kidding. He wants me to skate straight at Finn while he passes the puck around me and does complicated stick-handling patterns, all right before he does a flat wrist-shot at the goal.
