Page 3 of 10 Things I Skate About You

And then, suddenly, she sees me.

“No” is all she says. And then she skates right to me, fists on her saucy, rounded hips, her blue eyes ablaze with fury—and something else. Always something else.

She does the most dramatic hockey stop I have ever seen.

Directly in front of me.

It’s impressive that she could land it perfectly in figure skates, but I’m too pissed to be impressed, because the ice spray hits my face.

But I don’t flinch.

I don’t react.

“Good morning to you too, darlin’. What the hell are you doing here?”

2

KATE

The bastard didn’t even blink.

He’s just standing there with a cold, wet face, holding his stick with one hand, his helmet under one arm, staring down at me.

“I got here first,” I say, casually removing my earbuds. Totally unaffected by him. Am I impressed by his athletic build and strong body? Sure. Do I recognize that his thick, dark blond hair, intense pale blue eyes, and somehow-always-perfect-amount of scruff on his stupid handsome face are attractive? Yes. To other people. But he’s not my type. Does his Texas drawl awaken something primal inside of me, especially when he’s being a dick? Absolutely, darlin’. The primal urge to slap the cocky grin off his face.

Do I find his stillness and determination to focus all of his attention on me attractive even though I know his knee must be throbbing right now? Yes. Fine. Yes. I do.

Do I have to keep my weird urge to lick his wet face in check? Also, yes. And I will keep it in check. Because he’s an idiot male person who would mistake face-licking for a desire to have sex with him and not the inconsequential tick that it actually is.

Mary Wollstonecraft said,I do not wish women to have power over men but over themselves. I have power over myself. Me. Only me.

“Why didn’t I see your shitty Jeep in the parking lot?” he asks in his gruff voice.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but I got an Uber because Simone is in the shop again. She needs a new alternator.”

“You need a new car.”

“You need a new personality.”

“You need to get off my ice. I have it booked from six to seven. Me. My name. On the schedule. Confirmed with Ms. Percy.”

“I emailed her yesterday to confirm that it was still booked for someone else, and she didn’t respond. Therefore I took a chance.”

“Well, it’s still booked for me.Henceyou must leave. I’ve gotta warm up and do some drills.” He finally turns to lean his hockey stick against the board behind him. “You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.”

Crossing my arms in front of my chest, I can’t help but laugh when I realize he’s wearing his Icebreakers jersey. To the rink for solo practice. For beer league. I honestly love that logo. It’s a cartoony overflowing beer mug with two crossed hockey sticks behind it. So cute. Do I find his determination and dedication to recovery and excellence impressive? I do. Endearing, even? Okay, yes. Hot…? “If you hate that logo so much, why are you wearing it at six a.m. when only Ron the Zamboni Guy is going to see it?”

He leans in and says, “BecauseIknow how to commit to things and people, Red.” That one short sentence is laden with subtext. “And if I don’t want to commit to something, I let people know it instead of waiting for things to change or doing things behind people’s backs.”

The rims of my eyes are burning. The tip of my nose starts tingling. My stupid lower lip is trembling. Bastard. Ever since high school, Adam Foley has hated Phoenix and Phoenix hated him, but it’s just plain shitty to bring up his betrayal at six fifteen in the morning on the rink. Too soon. Phoenix only moved to Toronto three months ago, and I only found out about the girl he moved in with six weeks ago. That was below the belt, and I can see in his eyes that he knows it.

I manage to swallow the lump in my throat and say, “That is the most beautiful self-aggrandizing statement I have ever heard from a twenty-eight-year-old curmudgeonly asshole who won’t shut up about things that bother him.”

“And yet you’ve never heard me say a word about the person who bothers me the most, now have you?” He doesn’t break our hate-fueled locked gaze as he dons his helmet. I can still see his blue eyes through the visor.

He skates off, and I turn to watch him go. His first few strides are stiff, but he’s hiding it well. Well, he’d be hiding it well from almost anyone but an ice-sport movement coach like me. Unfortunately, I can tell he’s compensating.

Also…I can’t see his butt, but I’m aware of what’s under those layers of gear. Twin hills of absolute professional dedication. Even when he’s not a professional anymore.