Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 64727 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64727 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Uh…advice. It took a moment for me to track the change in topic. I liked it better when he was staring at my pecs, tracing his bottom lip with the tip of his tongue, and—
Rafe poked my ribs, motioning for me to make room for the young mom navigating around us with two munchkins skipping behind her.
“Okay, well…I got two ideas for you. Favorite karaoke song and best series you’ve ever binged.”
“That sounds like ‘how to look desperate in under five seconds’ advice.” He made a buzzer sound. “Try again.”
“Nope. I’ve given you gold, Johannsen. Work with it. Everyone has a karaoke story and or a show they freaking love and can’t shut up about. Get him talking while you’re practicing your spins or something. I guarantee you’ll have your opening to ask him out. How do you feel about sriracha?” I held up a bottle.
“I like it…sparingly. Too much changes the taste of whatever you’re eating.”
“True, but I like spicy food. I went to this karaoke bar where they served the hottest wings ever. Ty put my name on the list to sing a Britney Spears song. My mouth was on fire and I could barely whisper into the mic, let alone sing.”
Rafe’s lips twitched with humor as he pushed the cart and perused chicken breasts. “Which song?”
“ ‘Toxic.’ I was supposed to make my voice extra deep and Ty was gonna go high, but those damn wings lit a fire in my throat. I won’t be ordering those any time soon. It’s a great bar, though. Hey, we should go sometime. What are you doing next Friday?” I winked. “See what I did there?”
He added chicken to our now half-full cart and grinned. “That was impressive.”
“Thank you. If you need another pep talk, I’m here for you, but I’ve got do-or-die playoff games next week and—”
“I’m fine.”
“I know you are. I believe in you, Rafester.”
He blushed, then grumbled about the sodium in a bottle of soy sauce. I was a little insulted that he thought I’d buy his faux-grouchy routine. I’d been privy to the real grump, so I could tell the difference. But I didn’t call him out on it ’cause whether he’d realized it or not, Rafe had let me in.
Sharing a ride to and from school, grocery shopping together, sitting next to each other at the rink and talking about boys…all this was new. I kinda liked my prickly roommate, even if he was squirrely, quick to take offense, and stubbornly proud.
Rafe wouldn’t let me buy the groceries outright, so I doubled the quantities, took his fifty bucks, and tomorrow I’d remind him that I had an away game and tell him to help himself so nothing went to waste.
This was just me playing the roommate game.
Maybe someday I’d be honest and let Rafe know I was probably getting more out of this than he was. Practicing discipline and accountability off the ice wasn’t something I’d done in years. Maybe stringing a few days of abstinence together was the definition of taking baby steps, but it was something.
And if I looked forward to being with Rafe, talking about our days and squabbling over how to properly bake a potato while binging White Lotus, that was something too.
CHAPTER 9
RAFE
My skate dragged on the ice by the slightest fraction. My momentum was off, and I’d never achieve the height I needed to fully rotate. I could immediately feel myself overcompensating. The best I could hope was that I didn’t fall on my butt in front of Boris Andreev.
I landed with an awkward stumble I tried to cover with some fancy footwork and graceful arms. Phew!
Boris, Smithton’s esteemed jump coach, however, didn’t congratulate me for saving my ass.
“What was that…besides terrible? Your timing is no good, your blade is making mincemeat on the ice as bad as hockey players. Go again, Rafe. Again,” he stormed in his lilting Russian accent.
I used to have a perfect double axel. Near perfect, anyway. Two and a half rotations in midair, starting forward at forty-five degrees, seamlessly landing facing the opposite direction. Perfect. It was as if I’d had wings and an invisible tether. I’d twisted unfettered, my body tightly aligned. My vertical speed, ankle flexion, and hip stability had never been in question.
I’d never agonized over minute details. There’d been no need. I’d been training for too many years. I’d known the math behind movement, and I’d known my body too well to make silly mistakes.
Until the day my right skate had caught in a divot on the ice and…well, ruined my life.
Too much? Well, maybe so, but that stupid freaking accident had upended everything. Sure, last season had been decent—but not spectacular. And damn it, I had potential. Or I used to.
Not so long ago, I’d worked with some of the finest coaches in the nation at Dartmouth. Now I was getting yelled at by a cranky Russian with white hair, a red nose, and a biting tongue. Boris didn’t give compliments. He grunted or gruffly corrected infractions. The best measure of progress was his silence.