Page 49 of Thrown for a Loop
“Seriously?” He rolls his shoulders, looking irritated. “That can’t be true. Wouldn’t Iknow?”
“Maybe?” I say, wishing it didn’t sound so outlandish. “It’s rare to be out of alignment in the, uh, pelvic area and not feel pain, but it’s possible.”
The skepticism practically drips off him. “And this is your big theory for why I can’t fucking…” He sighs. “Move my ass at the speed I’m used to?”
“Yes.” And the rest comes out in a gust. “The asymmetry in your gait is slowing you down. And I just don’t buy that you’re suddenlytoo old or suddenly don’t care or suddenly forgot how to skate, like social media says after every game.”
I can tell this idea hits home when the smirk slides off his face. “Still sounds ridiculous.”
“So then I’m ridiculous,” I insist. “But it’s a cheap experiment, Chase. A chiropractor would do an X-ray and a consultation. Will you please consider it? I just… have a feeling.”
“Oh. Well. If it’s afeeling.” He glares at me. “And if I go along with one of your big ideas, what’s the worst that could happen? Amirite?”
My face falls, and I’m reminded for the zillionth time that Chase has no reason to trust me. All I’ve ever done is cause him problems.
He scrubs a hand down his face. “Never mind. Is our time up yet?”
“Almost.”
Chase glances toward the peanut gallery. “Sailor looks twitchy. Like if we don’t do something entertaining, he’s going to have to break out the shadow puppets.”
“Agreed,” I say, turning toward the crowd. “Let’s do one more flashy drill so I can show off my new hockey skates again.”
Another flicker of humor passes through his eyes. Or maybe I’m just really stressed out and was hoping to see one. “Sure,” he says. “But make this one a race. I gotta prove that I can still beat a girl.”
“Okay, tough guy,” I shoot back. “But no crying when you lose.”
It takes me only a couple of minutes to kick the cones into place and explain the rules to Chase. “We’ll drive in opposite directions. First one to complete the course wins. But if you knock over a cone, you lose. Steve?” I call, lifting the whistle over my head. “Will you start us off?”
“Sure!” he says with the grin of a showman.
I toss him the whistle, which he catches.
Then I line up on the opposite end of the U-shaped course fromChase. We both dig into our edges, waiting for the signal. “Don’t hurt yourself trying to win,” I say primly. “It wouldn’t be worth it.”
Every journalist titters.
“For f—” Chase starts, his voice low, before glancing at the cameras and correcting with “for crying out loud” under his breath.
And then the shrill sound of the whistle pierces the air.
I explode into motion, my edges biting into the ice as I accelerate toward the first turn. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of Chase matching my pace on the opposite side of the U. He doesn’t need as many strides to do it, though.
As I lean into the first corner, my inside edge carves a clean arc as I navigate around the cone. The familiar rush of competition floods my veins, and for a moment, I forget about the journalists, the tension, everything but the race.
As we approach the bottom of the U, I can see Chase more clearly. He moves with surprising grace for such a big guy, his powerful strides eating up the ice. Before we pass each other, our eyes meet for a split second. The fire in his gaze almost stops me in my tracks. Because I recognize that look. He’s havingfun. The way we used to.
Then he’s flying past me. My legs burn as we start up the other side of the U, but I ignore it, focusing on my form. Chase is gaining ground, too.
The final turn looms. I lean in hard, my thighs screaming as I whip a hairpin turn around the cone. But Chase is already turning, too.
We sprint for the finish line. The ice flies beneath our blades, the world narrowing to just this moment, this race.
In the end, Chase’s longer stride gives him the advantage. He crosses the finish line a split second before me, both of us breathing hard as we slow to a stop.
“Damn,” I pant, hands on my knees. “Guess you can still beat a girl after all.”
“Barely,” he admits. “You almost had me on that last turn.”
