Page 2 of Love and Other Penalties
He tilts his head, and I catch a glimpse of sharp jawline beneath the helmet. “I’ve had this slot for three months. Every Monday, every Tuesday andeveryThursday.”
That can’t be true. I didn’t see anyone else on the schedule, which is digital and not that hard to figure out. “Well, your name wasn’t on the chart.” I cross my arms for emphasis. “Also, today is Wednesday.”
That stops him. He glances toward the arena’s digital clock display, and I see the exact moment he realizes I’m right. His shoulders drop slightly, but he doesn’t apologize.
“So it’s just a simple scheduling error.” He skates closer to me. Too close. Close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze, and I’m suddenly very aware that I’m five-foot-one in a sport that celebrates tiny, and he’s probably six-foot-something in a sport that celebrates giants.
“Obviously.” I gesture toward the empty rink. “So if you could just?—”
“No.” The word is flat, final. “I have to practice. You can work around me.”
The audacity. The absolute, breathtaking audacity of this man.
“Work around you?” My voice climbs a half-octave in only three words, and that’s a real skill. Too bad I can’t get a gold medal in that.
“I needclean icefor my routine. I can’t dodge hockey pucks while I’m attempting a triple lutz.”
“Then don’t attempt a triple…whatever you just said.” He cocks his eyebrows, as if daring me to offer another suggestion. “Problem solved.”
I stare at him. Actually stare, mouth slightly open, because I cannot believe this conversation is happening. “Don’t attempt—do you have any idea who I am?”
“Someone who’s about to be late for whatever she does when she’s not figure skating?” A tiny smile touches his mouth before he turns away, then flips around and skates backward while stick-handling the puck. What—a—show—off.
The worst part? He’s good. Really good. His edges are clean, his balance perfect even while moving backward and controlling the puck. He flows across the ice like he was born on it, all controlled power and athletic grace.
My stupid heartbeat thinks we should go after him and try to get his number. I dig my toe pick in harder as a physical reminder that I don’t have time for a boyfriend—and especially not one as dismissive as this guy.
“Fine,” I call after him. “But I’m not changing my routine. If you get in my way, that’s on you.”
He doesn’t respond, just continues his backward skating toward the far end of the rink. When he finally turns around, I catch his name on his jersey—Travers—and make a mental note to look up everything the Internet has to spill about him.
Then, if he tries to steal my practice time on Tuesdays and Thursdays, I’ll have something in my arsenal to drive him back to bed. At the very least, my pulse won’t have a reason to be booming quite so dramatically through my body.
It’s such a traitor sometimes.
I skate to center ice. If this…this…tomcatthinks he can intimidate me into leaving, he’s about to learn otherwise. I’ve been skating since I could walk. I’ve trained through injuries, heartbreak, and my mother’s particular brand of loving brutality. I’m not about to be scared off by one grumpy guy with good edges and perfect hair.
I settle into my starting position, arms raised, and wait for my music to begin in my head. The opening notes of my short program fill my imagination, and I push off into my first element.
The routine flows through me with muscle memory, every bar of music drowning out Tomcat’s mangling of the ice down on the other end.
Spiral sequence, ice dancing, build up to my first jump. I’m dimly aware of Tomcat doing shooting drills at the other end of the rink, the sharp crack of his stick against the puck punctuating my internal soundtrack in the most irritating way.
But I grew up with a woman I’ve had to tune out since age six, so I’m able to lose myself in the familiar rhythm of my blades against ice, the perfect stretch of my quads, the controlled fall and recovery that is figure skating.
Until I glance up mid-crossover and catch him watching me.
Tomcat’s stopped his drill entirely and now stands motionless about halfway down his side of the rink. Even through his helmet, the intensity of his stare reaches me. Something hot and uncomfortable twists in my stomach. I’m used to being watched—skating is a performance sport broadcasted world-wide, after all—but this feels…different.
I fumble my next transition, catching my blade on a rough patch of ice, and have to windmill one arm one time to keep from falling. Heat floods my cheeks, and my mother’s voice screams through my head.
Ivy Dane does not stumble during simple footwork. Ivy Dane is precise, controlled, perfect.
Pull yourself together, Ivy!
Except apparently not when tall, dark hockey tomcats are watching her like she’s the most interesting thing they’ve ever seen.
I risk another glance toward him, expecting smugness or amusement at my mistake. Instead, his posture has shifted. He’s leaning forward slightly on his stick, and there’s something almost hungry in the way he’s tracking my movement across the ice.
