by Jill Shalvis
She hoped he felt the same way in spite of his protests the other night.
Because she had everything riding on it.
The period ended. She couldn’t have said what the score was, she’d been too nervous to keep track. The players were starting to file off the ice.
“Go!” Sierra said to her, giving her a push toward the edge of the rink.
Sam stumbled forward, realizing her hands were trembling, her knees, no doubt her inner organs were all aquiver. She was a wreck.
She wondered if the single red rose might be too much, but it was too late now. The thing was clutched in her hand and her fingers were welded shut with sweat.
She saw Greg, watched him with her whole heart. She loved everything about him. The shape of his head, the way he skated, a little bow legged, the way he smiled at her in that intimate way as though no one else in the world mattered.
The scoreboard started to flash. Jarrad had come through. Instead of a silly message to support the team or an ad, the scoreboard flashed her message.
She’d hoped that all the spectators would have bolted out of their seats to get pop or beer or take bathroom breaks by now, but it seemed as if even more people packed the rink now than when she’d first arrived.
A buzz went through the audience as people looked at the screen and then began nudging each other, whispering, settling in for a little more entertainment.
The huge screen said this:
Greg Olsen. I love you. I’ll always love you. I’m ten years late, but will you marry me? I can’t live without you. Samantha.
She kept reading those ridiculously huge neon words as though the message might mysteriously change. She didn’t know what else to do. As a nice extra-humiliating touch, a camera had now found her, and she could see herself projected on the big screen looking like the most desperate single woman in history. She wanted to flee so badly she thought she would have if her feet didn’t feel frozen to the ground. She had never, ever been so nervous in her life.
Maybe because she’d never done anything that meant more to her.
She felt like the entire world was staring at her.
Except Greg.
It hadn’t occurred to her that the players would be too busy thinking about taking a break, guzzling water and doing whatever players do between periods to check out the scoreboard.
What if she’d done all this for nothing?
Then one of the fans leaned over and shouted something to the exiting players. One guy glanced up. Read the screen. Laughed. Nudged another player. More laughter.
Oh, good. She was going to be a locker-room joke. She’d never live this down. Never ever. She’d have to quit law. Move to a country where no one watched hockey, spoke English or had internet access since she could feel the number of cameras pointed her way and felt her YouTube rating going up by the nanosecond.
At last, the pushing and laughing reached Greg. She watched him turn. Felt the moment he read her words.
And then absolutely nothing happened.
He didn’t rush forward onto the ice looking for her. He didn’t bolt for the locker room.
He stood stock-still.
Like a rock cairn in the middle of the ice. As though he was as frozen in place, and maybe in time, as she was.
The blinking scoreboard began to look foolish. The murmurs grew sympathetic. She squeezed her eyes shut. For the first time in her life fully comprehending the meaning of the expression, she wished the floor would open and swallow her.
And then almost in slow motion, she saw Greg turn. Scan the crowd. Jarrad had appeared from somewhere and pointed to where she stood wondering if any man was really worth humiliating herself like this.
He skated slowly toward her and though she’d been frozen a moment ago, she grew hot, so hot that she thought she’d melt the ice if she stepped on it.
He stopped and removed his helmet. He was two feet away from her, the boards between them along with a decade of misunderstanding.
She waited anxiously for what he’d say. He gazed at her face with an inscrutable expression. Finally, he said, “What are you doing?”
She swallowed hard. Now was the time for the truth in her heart. “I’m putting it all on the line. Giving you my life if you want it.”
A bead of sweat trickled down past his hairline and he wiped at it. “You really want to marry me?”
“Yes.”
He looked at her. She’d never heard a rink full of people so quiet. “Is that rose for me?”
Oh, God, he was torturing her. “Yes.” And what a stupid idea that had been.
He sniffed. “You got a ring? I bought you a ring when I asked you.”
She swore silently. She’d never thought that a woman provided an engagement ring when she did the asking. But then she’d never expected to be in this position.
She tugged the old school ring she always wore off her finger. Glared at him. Enough was enough. She held it out. “And if you expect me to go down on bended knee, you can kiss my—”
She never got the last word out. He pulled her to him so hard she lost her balance. He kissed her as though he’d been waiting ten years to kiss her exactly like this.
She tasted the salt of his sweat, felt the stubble of his chin brush her. Then he pulled away only far enough to say, “Yes, you crazy woman. Yes, I’ll marry you.”
And then he hauled her over the barrier so they were finally free of constraint and could hold each other, full body flush against full body, kissing as though they’d never stop.
She was vaguely aware of cheering. First from Greg’s teammates and the opposing team, none of whom had bothered to leave the ice and take a break. Then from a packed rink of crazy people. They were on their feet, as wild as though they’d watched their favorite team win a Stanley Cup victory.
Jarrad came across the ice to where she was in Greg’s arms half laughing, half crying, and when she hugged him, he hugged her and Greg at the same time. “Glad you two finally worked it out.”
Sierra was there and she had to have a hug, and then for some reason Greg’s entire team needed to give Sam a hug or a kiss or simply give their buddy a hard time.
“I gotta go before the next period starts,” he finally said.
“I love you,” she said, letting him see the truth in her eyes.
“I love you, too. Never stopped.”
“Me, neither.”
“Wait!” She took her ring and picked up his left hand. The ring barely fit onto his baby finger. She kissed the finger, ring and all. And then he kissed her swiftly before skating off to the dressing room. She caught the glint of her ring as he closed his fingers around it.
What a fitting engagement ring, she realized, their high school ring. Where it all began.
As he reached the edge of the rink he turned and their gazes connected. She wondered what the next ten years held. Knew it would be interesting, sometimes stressful, but worth it. So worth it.
Then he laughed and pointed up to the scoreboard.
A new message was flashing:
He said yes! Congratulations, Samantha and Greg.
She glanced back at her new fiancé and they exchanged a wordless message of their own.
I love you.
Forever.
Juliet couldn’t have done better.
Breakaway
1
“DANCING?” TAYLOR McBride let the suckitude of that word hang in the air until his agent nodded.
“On ice?”
Once more the disdainful tone. The nod.
“With a figure skater?”
This time Jeremy Barker didn’t nod, he launched into sell mode. “Look, Taylor, you need the exposure. You want to get off the farm team and into the bigs? You need to get yourself noticed. This gig’s for charity. A hunky hockey player and a cute figure skater team up and do a dance routine on ice. It’ll be fun, make a few bucks for a good cause and you’ll get yourself some profile. Also, I’ve seen Becky Haines in person.
She’s hot.”
“Don’t care how hot she is.” Which was a lie. He was always interested in hot girls, but he wasn’t about to be sidetracked that easily. “She’s a figure skater. I’m a hockey player. She can be so hot she melts the rink, but I’m not going out there to make a fool of myself.”
“Come on. You’ve seen that TV show Battle of the Blades? It’s great fun. Put a hockey player and a figure skater together and watch them try to do an ice dance routine.”
“I don’t think it’s for me.” He didn’t think it sounded like fun to dress up as a dork and prance around making a fool of himself, either, but he didn’t say that.
“Look, dude. You wouldn’t even be getting this chance if it wasn’t for the McBride name.”
And didn’t that up the level of suckitude? Of course he knew that. He’d dragged the McBride name behind him like a stinking hockey bag ever since he’d discovered that he and Jarrad McBride shared the hellacious, speed-demon hockey gene. He’d tried to keep up with his brother so long as a little kid that he simply grew used to skating faster than any kid his age should. He’d learned to banish fear and keep his eye on his goal, which was to one day be bigger and stronger and faster than his brother, who was both his hero and mentor.
He’d broken his arm twice, had his front teeth knocked out at twelve, torn a rotator cuff and sprained everything sprainable, but he still came back for more.
Unstoppable, that’s what they called him on ice. He might not be big like Big J, but he was fast and agile. And fearless.
And he knew, to the depth of his being, that this was his year. Goodbye farm team, hello NHL.
What really burned was that he’d spent so long trying to catch up to his big brother that he couldn’t imagine heading into the big leagues and not facing off against Jarrad.
But his big brother, no more a stranger to injury than he was, had really caught some bad luck. A body check gone wrong, that’s all it was. Jarrad refused even to let the team exact vengeance on the punk who’d knocked him down. But that face-plant onto the ice had cost his big brother. Maybe nobody knew better than Taylor how much it cost. Jarrad had lost his peripheral vision, and that meant he was no use to any team. His speed, his strength, his size, none of it mattered now. He was benched.
Permanently.
And Taylor’s dream of one day skating against his brother in the NHL was also permanently benched. Well, if he couldn’t skate against Jarrad he could play for him, which was another reason he was determined this would be his year.
“That’s why I’m saying no. It’s bad enough that Jarrad’s had to take up coaching amateurs now he can’t play anymore. Do you think I’m going to add to the family humiliation by doing the polka in public? With a figure skater?”
“It’s the waltz. You’ll be doing the waltz. And it’s for charity.”
“I’ll write them a check.”
“Taylor…”
“I’m a hockey player, not some guy in sequins and a leotard floating around the ice to Swan Lake.”
Jeremy folded his arms and put on his bulldog expression.
Taylor never liked it when the bulldog came out. Usually it meant he was about to get bad news.
“Here’s the deal. A team which I cannot name—” He held his hands up before Taylor could burst into speech. “Which I cannot name, is interested in you. The owner himself asked me to get you in the charity gig. See, here’s the thing. A lot of guys show promise. Not a lot of guys have Jarrad McBride for a brother. It’s enough to get you a look-see.”
Again, he stopped Taylor before the words could burst from his mouth, old, familiar words about how he didn’t want to be noticed because he shared blood with a NHL legend. He was good. Better than good. All he needed was a chance to prove himself.
As though reading his mind, which he probably didn’t need to do since he’d heard some version of the same speech a hundred times, Jeremy said, “This is your chance to prove yourself. You go out there, show you can be a good sport, raise some money for a good cause, and it buys you a tryout. What’s the big deal?”
There was silence for a couple of beats before Taylor tossed himself into one of the black leather club chairs in Jeremy’s office and said, “The big deal is, I don’t know how to waltz.”
* * *
“HE DOESN’T EVEN KNOW how to dance?” Becky Haines couldn’t believe her ears. Some eager marketing genius had decided that she should ice dance with a hockey player to raise funds for charity, which seemed to her a cheap excuse for people to laugh at both skaters.
Still, there were more than a few pros that she’d be happy to press up against in the interest of charity, but they’d chosen instead a raw young redneck who hadn’t even graduated from the farm team yet. Taylor McBride’s only claim to fame that she could see was that he had a famous older brother.
Now it turned out the guy couldn’t even dance.
“Are we sure he can skate?”
She was tired from a full day of working out in the gym, her muscles sore and her temper frayed. Which is probably why she turned on her coach/manager, Irina Katanovich, and said, “I have a silver medal hanging in a display case at home that says this is not my problem.”
“Tsch,” was the response, Irina’s favorite when she was irritated. It nicely combined astonishment, aggravation and “what is a world-famous Russian athlete like me doing wasting my time with this spoiled young princess?”
“This is great opportunity for you. And maybe when you fix the attitude, you will add a gold medal to the display case. Now, show me again the flip.”
If Irina wasn’t an absolute genius and mentor, Becky would have argued. But they both knew that Irina was a big part of that silver win. And they were both driven to do everything in their joint power to add that elusive gold medal to her collection. So, she slammed down her water bottle, huffed her way to the mat and channeled her annoyance into something productive. Improving her triple flip.
And if she had to waltz around the ice with Jarrad McBride’s baby brother to raise money for a cause she believed in, she’d do it. The event was projected to raise half a million dollars through ticket sales for research into juvenile diabetes, a cause that she supposed was more important than her ego.
“He’d better get some dance lessons before we start rehearsing,” she yelled once she’d landed her jump on the mat.
“You keep jumping like that and you can have anything you want,” Irina replied.
“And I don’t have to like it.”
“Tsch.”
She set herself up, ripped straight up in the air, surprising herself with the height she achieved. When she landed, she was feeling better. But not a pushover.
“And I don’t have to like him.”
“Tsch!”
* * *
TAYLOR WORE HIS SCOWL the way a goalie wears a face mask. It was both protection and a clear keep-away sign. The hockey equipment version of a growl.
He was running late, which he hated. But his hockey practice had gone overtime and he’d had to shower. No way he was showing up to dance close stinking of sweat.
He bashed open the door and entered the rink to find some cheesy dance music playing. A scary-looking tank of a woman barked orders in a strong Russian accent and out on the ice he watched a black-clad figure launch gracefully in the air, twirl a few times and hit the ice. As much as he thought figure skating was girlie stuff, he knew the impact of hard ice on bones and joints and tendons and he had to admire the guts of the woman out there making it look easy.
The Russian woman spotted him then called something to the girl on the ice, who eyed him up and down from mid-rink and then skated over to him. There were no rhinestones or frills on her today. She wore a black training outfit that fitted her like a second skin. Even though she was small, he could see the ridges of muscle under the deceptively soft exterior. Her face intrigued him. Pretty gray eyes, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, delicate skin and a full-lipped mouth. But t
here was a toughness about her that told him not to fall for the sweet exterior.
Maybe, he thought, this ordeal wouldn’t be so bad. He was about to apologize for keeping her waiting when she spoke.
“You’re late,” she snapped, her tone as cold as the ice beneath her. “Don’t keep me waiting again.”
“I was practicing,” he snapped right back. “Sorry if I held up your triple Salchow.” Talk about a triple sow cow. He should have listened to his gut and never come near this gig.
They glared at each other. Then she spoke again, her words pelting him like ice chips.
“You gonna stand there all day whining or are you gonna lace up?”
Muttering under his breath, he yanked his skates out of his bag and swiftly laced up.
Then he slid out onto the ice, speed skating a couple of circles around her, just because he felt like it.
“All right,” the scary eastern-European woman barked, stepping onto the ice and walking toward Becky. At least he assumed that was Becky. The ice princess hadn’t bothered to introduce herself. “We do a simple waltz around the ice. Places.”
Taylor didn’t like feeling stupid on the rink. This was his home. He was as comfortable on a slab of ice as a freestyler on a snow-covered mountain, or a boogie-boarder on water. But nobody asked a freestyler to do a dance down the mountain, or the boogie-boarder to salsa across the waves. This was stupid and embarrassing.
His scowl deepened.
Becky skated up to where he stood. Raised her brows and then put a hand on his shoulder. She held the other out in the air and he remembered that he was supposed to clasp it in his, and put a hand around her waist so he could guide her across the floor. Or ice.
But something about that determined face a good foot below his told him this gal wasn’t going to be led anywhere.
In spite of how awkward he felt, and how much he already didn’t like this girl, he still noticed how lithe and muscular she was. Her hand seemed ridiculously small in his.
