Page 9 of Ice Dance

“Will you come to the conference room?”

“My flight’s at nine.”

“You have time.”

I could hear her out. I owed Dylan that much. I wasn’t working with Navarro, but it wouldn’t cost me anything to go prior to leaving for the airport. “Alright.” She’d see how poor a fit we were, then drop this ridiculous idea and we could all move on.

“Good, wear something loose,” she said, then ended the call.

I showered quickly, dressed in loose trousers and a shirt, packed my bags—it didn’t take long, as I hadn’t had chance to fully unpack yet—and headed downstairs to check out.

While at the front desk, I spotted Dylan leaving the elevator. She saw me checking out of my room and frowned on her way over. Dylan was a great deal shorter than me, and stockier too. But her build was deceptive. She could often out-stamina me. “Are you even going to listen?”

“I’ll listen,” I said, handing over my card to the woman behind the desk to settle the hotel bill. “Then I’ll say no.”

She glowered, giving me the look that said she and I both knew I could do better. “When have I ever asked you to do something for me?”

She hadn’t. Ever. We’d worked together for years. She was the only coach who’d stayed. I owed her this. “Okay, I’ll listen. But⁠—”

“No buts . . . Just shut up, park your stubbornness, and listen.” She’d said it with a smile, but I knew better than to argue. “You ready?”

“Alright.”

“Good. Don’t worry, you won’t miss your flight. If that’s what you really want.”

I followed her through the lobby, passing the door to the bar where last night I’d thrown a very expensive beer over Navarro, for which he’d tried to hit me right after. The man was an animal. There was no way I could work with someone as impulsive as him. He might be able to dance, but he couldn’t handle the pressure on ice, not if he couldn’t take a little backchat and some constructive criticism.

She pushed open the frosted-glass conference room doors, and inside, Navarro was already waiting. He wore loose tracksuit bottoms and a faded T-shirt. His blue-eyed gaze fixed on me, then dropped to the bags in my hands. He knew where this was going. He knew we weren’t going to dance together. I could already see it on his face. His hair was a messy halo of burnt golds and browns this morning. Eyes that hadn’t gotten enough sleep. He was probably hungover. On selection week. What an unprofessional mess of a man.

I set my bags down gently by the stacked chairs. The floorspace had been cleared, leaving a vast empty area in the middle of the room. I stayed by the chairs and folded my arms. Navarro stayed by the windows, lit from behind by Montreal’s weak spring sun. He leaned on one leg, hip cocked, trying to appear casual, but his gaze darted from me to Dylan, back to me, then at the chairs, and anywhere else he could look that wasn’t me.

This was a terrible idea. Anyone with a pair of eyes could see we were incompatible. Even if I did want to dance in the gender open category, he was the last person I’d have picked.

At least he had the sense to look embarrassed. He knew this was a waste of our time, same as I did. Although, he didn’t have to be here. What did he need this for? Did he think he could dance to my level? That dancing with me might somehow elevate him? He probably believed my status would elevate his. It wasn’t going to happen.

“Alright.” Dylan stood between us, putting herself in the middle of the room, like a negotiator. “I can sense some tension here, but that’s to be expected. These are unusual circumstances. But we are all here, so that’s already a step in the right direction. Let’s build on that.”

“I’m not building anything with him,” I said.

Dylan pursed her lips. “Hear me out, both of you. I’m a good coach. I’ve been doing this since before you two were old enough to drive. You understand? I know talent. And you both have it in spades. Ren, technically you can’t be beaten. Navarro, your musicality on the ice is second to none.”

“Thank you,” he mumbled.

I sent my gaze out the window, to keep it from finding its way back to Navarro. He was listening; he was here. Which was more than I could say for Alisha.

“I know this isn’t going to be easy. Easy doesn’t make winners. I want four days from you. Give me that. Four days of you two, on the ice together. The selection panel is Friday. If we fail, then we’ve tried. But I don’t start anything expecting to fail. I want to win. I’m here in Montreal to win, and I believe you both want to win as well. Now, if you’ll both get over your hangups, then I know we can make it work.”

I ground my teeth. I didn’t want this. Dancing with a man? Worse . . . with him? He was sloppy, rash, chaotic, impulsive, fiery, and absolutely without proper control. He had spirit and passion. But those would only get him so far. I was here to win, and if I was going to compete, then I didn’t expect half measures.

“You don’t want to work with me,” Navarro said, his gaze fixed on me.

“That’s just his face,” Dylan said, flapping a hand at me.

Navarro smiled, and I could feel the anger rising in me. The same anger he’d prompted in the bar last night. He was a joke.

“If you want honesty,” I said. “I don’t think you can match me in skill or talent.”

He snorted, rolled up his sleeves and walked to the middle of the room, close to where Dylan stood. Then he beckoned me forward with a curl of his fingers.