Page 3 of Love and Other Penalties
The realization hits me like a body check: he’s not just watching my skating. He’s watchingme.
Game on.
I push into my step sequence with renewed focus, letting the music in my head guide me through the intricate footwork. Every movement is deliberate, controlled, designed to showcase the precision and artistry that separates figure skating from every other sport on ice.
My blades barely touch the ice as I fly across it, every tippy-toe step and slide exactly right. I add an extra spin to my turn sequence, extend my spiral a beat longer than necessary, and finish with a combination jump that lands so cleanly it barely makes a sound.
I spread my arms to the side the way I always do, almost in a bow as I come out of the jump. I meet Tomcat’s eyes, noting he hasn’t moved an inch. If anything, he’s forgotten how to blink.
I return to a normal stance, pure satisfaction flooding me as I skate toward him, slowly, letting my hips sway just slightly more than necessary. His eyes track every movement, and I feel a thrill of feminine power that has nothing to do with athletics and everything to do with the way his grip tightens on his hockey stick.
“Do I pass?” I ask when I’m close enough that he can hear me without me having to shout.
He blinks, like he’s just realized I’m not a mirage. “Your technique is…” He pauses, those dark eyes so mysterious as he thinks. “Clean.”
“Just clean?” I raise an eyebrow. “I was going for magnificent, but I’ll take clean.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. Almost a smile. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Don’t worry,” I say. “Unlike hockey players, figure skaters never think they’re good enough.”
I execute a perfect backward crossover around him, close enough that I can see his eyes widen slightly behind his helmet. Close enough to confirm that yes, he definitely smells like cedar and danger and something that makes me want to lean closer instead of skating away.
“You’re in my space,” he says, but there’s no real complaint in his voice.
“Your space?” I complete the circle and come to a stop directly in front of him. “Show me the schedule.”
He smiles and shakes his head as he drops his chin. Mm, he definitely practicesthatmove for the ladies.
“All right, Tomcat,” I say, and to my semi-horror I realize I’m flirting with him. “I have to?—”
“Tomcat?” His smile vanishes.
“You’re kind of a scoundrel,” I say. “And you play for team with a feline name.”
“You’reusingmyice. Can I call you Kitty Cat?”
I fold my arms. “Absolutely not.”
He grins again, this time the action slow and sultry and oh-so-dangerous. “I know: Kitten.”
“No—”
“Yeah, I like that.” He lifts his stick and indicates the other end of the rink. “Go on, Kitten. I’ll let you get back to your spins.”
Pure fire boils in my blood, and I scoff. “This can’t be a regular thing,” I say as I push off and glide away from him. “The schedule is the law.”
Finn Travers.Right wing for the Briarwood Bobcats. I squint at the screen of my phone while I wait for the frosting to whip to perfection.
He’s a starter and has been for a few years now. “Fan favorite,” I mutter, my eyes scanning for more of a scandal, something I can use against him. I haven’t been able to find anything yet. He’s the kind of player who makes highlight reels, wins MVP awards, and has a fan following that likely includes half the women in North America.
Including me, I think.
“Great.” I shove my phone in my back pocket and step over to the commercial mixer whipping up the buttercream.
Now my brain is joining the traitorous team my heart seems to be building.
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