Page 52 of Thrown for a Loop
“Sorry, right.” He’s usually a good listener, but tonight at dinner he was watching her eat a minimal salad and fantasizing about taking her out to a nice restaurant instead.
And then straight to bed.
She skates over to him and puts her hands on his shoulders. Her eyes are sparkling. “I know it’s late, Hotshot. Try to keep up.”
He’d like to blame the late hour, but Zoe is always hell on his willpower. That’s probably why he does something stupid next—he kisses her, right there in the middle of the rink, pulling her lithe body into his.
She comes willingly, though, leaning in to be kissed. They’re both such comfortable skaters that they barely notice the way they’re drifting gently across the slick surface, as if propelled by the power of his next fiery kiss. Not two seconds in, she’s clinging to his T-shirt with both hands. And thank God. He needs to know it’s not just him—that he’s not alone in this obsession. He can hardly breathe sometimes when she’s nearby.
God, I need to get you alone, he gritted out last night on the roofwhen it was almost too much. She moaned, and he almost lost his mind. The sexual frustration is real.
Until the bench door bangs suddenly.
Zoe pushes off his chest so fast it’s almost comical. And Chase immediately bends over, hands on his knees, concealing the tentpole in his sweatpants.
“S-sorry,” Zoe babbles. “We were just…”
“Whatever,” Martina says tersely. “I’m here to see this program you are crafting. It was my idea, yes? So let’s see if it was a good one.”
He exhales. At least it’s not her damn mother. But, God, he’sso stupid. Sister Walsh already looks at him like he’s a cockroach skittering across her kitchen. If she imagined what Chase wanted to do with her baby girl, she’d blow a gasket. He’d be fired by breakfast.
That dark thought is enough to calm his body, if not his mind. But Zoe is noodling with her phone, getting ready to restart the music, and he has to collect his last few brain cells and try to remember her choreography from start to finish.
“From the top,” Zoe says, handing the phone to Martina. “Give us a sec and hitplay?”
His heart still thumping, Chase joins her at center ice. Zoe reaches out a hand—palm down—and he takes it. A moment later, the first guitar chord of “Wicked Game” ripples through his chest. And now they’re in motion. Back crossovers, clockwise. Then a held breath as they lunge into an arabesque, while the guitar slides into a new chord.Tick-tockgo their arms.
A few beats later, the guitar slides again, and they effortlessly flip positions, their bodies moving like water. Then the vocals come in, and the music settles into his bones. Chase finds that thinkingthrough each transition isn’t actually necessary. He can just feel his way there. His body knows what to do.
Zoe has designed their routine so that she does all the hard work. She weaves like an exotic bird around him, setting up each new visual tableau. As she circles again, Zoe gives him a secretive smile, and he’s glowing inside. A split second later they separate for a toe loop, followed by camel spins. But his heart is airborne as they drop out of the camel spins and join hands again. Like hers was made to fit in his.
The next spin is the most intricate one. He’s forgotten the real name, calling it theangsty octopusin his head. They’re crouching and holding each other and spinning more times than he can process. While Chris Isaak sings brutal things about his breaking heart.
The lyrics to this song are really damn cynical. That must be why he likes them so much. It’s all desperation and loss, rendered into beauty. It’s more or less his own heart on a good day.
The whole thing is just perfect, and Zoe is a damn genius for creating it.
The spin finished, he fights dizziness. Zoe takes his hand, and they circle the rink, picking up speed. It’s time for the big lift, which means flying across the ice, holding Zoe by the hips in the air.
Here we go.When the proper moment arrives, he scoops her off the ice. With his legs in a powerful lunge, lifting her overhead is a simple thing. He’d never dream of dropping her.
They’re flying together now. Chris Isaak is crooning, the ethereal chords bouncing all around the arena. And Zoe is majestic above him, her lithe body stretching from one impossible pose to the next, until he sets her gently down.
She turns into his arms, and they dance and sway together until the last mournful line, when they pose together. He realizes he’s gasping for breath as Zoe makes them take a bow, just like in a realperformance. And then his eyes find Martina, who’s skating slowly across the ice, a worried expression on her face.
Uh-oh.Maybe he really sucks at this, and he’s just having too much fun to notice.
“Holy shit,” Martina says when she comes to a stop in front of them. “Zoe, you are a poet.”
Zoe’s sudden smile could power the Eastern Seaboard. “Thank you. It’s moody, right?”
“It’s…” She takes a breath. “It’s the best thing I’ve ever seen you skate, and that’s because it comes straight from the heart. Remember this feeling, will you? Next season, when you’re straining every one of your tendons trying to land four triples in under three minutes, remember what it feels like to skate for joy, and not for technical points.”
Zoe’s eyes grow shiny, and she nods.
Martina turns to him now. “You also impress me,” she says quietly. “Not your technique.”
He laughs immediately.
