Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 113072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
“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 from Chase. 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 having fun. 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.”
I look up into his blue eyes, and I’m transported back a decade. For a split second it’s just the two of us again, red-cheeked and happy, oblivious to the rest of the world.
The sound of applause brings me back to earth, though. I straighten up just as Chase does the same.
“Isn’t she great?” Steve Sailor is crowing. “Coach Carson will take your questions in a moment.”
Dismissed, Chase skates toward the bench, and I hurry to follow him. His agent is waiting there with his shoes. “Nice show you two put on,” Bess says. “But please tell me you figured out exactly what he needs.”
“Since you mentioned it…”
Chase groans quietly as he steps off the ice and onto the rubber mats.
“I want him to see a chiropractor immediately.”
“Huh,” Bess says. “I’ll find him someone. But why?”
“Zoe has a stupid theory,” Chase mutters, taking his shoes from Bess.
“It’s not stupid,” I argue. “It’s merely improbable. But…”
My gaze falls on the shoes, and I lose my train of thought. They’re a beat-up pair of the same classic Adidas Sambas that Chase always favored—white with black stripes. He’s a rich man now. It’s interesting to see that he still wears his shoes out before he buys a new pair.
Interesting, and possibly important. “Let me see those?” I say. But then I’m so impatient that I don’t wait for an answer. I lean forward and grab the shoes out of his hands.
“Sniff those at your own risk,” Bess says. “Hockey players have stinky feet. I know because I married one.”
But I’m not listening. I’m too busy turning them over to study the soles. And as soon as I get a look, I let out a sound of disbelief. The right outer sole is seriously worn down. And the left one isn’t. “Look. See that? Now do you believe me?”