Page 12

CHAPTER

TWELVE

Fable

I haven’t seen the Ice Thistle in person in twenty years, and even with the many updates my grandpa sent me, nothing prepared me for how much has changed. Instead of white walls like before, they have been painted an eye-catching sage green, with murals of outdoor scenes of pond hockey placed throughout the building. Of course, the twenty-point buck my grandpa swore he saw when he was younger is in each one, and seeing the animal has my heart seizing in grief.

He may have put me in a tough situation, but I’m going to do everything I can to make him proud.

We have birthday rooms for ice-skating parties or team banquets. The bleachers in the north and east rinks are brand-new, along with LED scoreboards that take up half the wall in the rink. The ones in the west and south haven’t been changed out, and they still have the old scoreboards. The west rink also has a large, old TV showing slides of the three skaters who train at the Thistle. Pathetic. When I was a skater here, we had a huge program.

That’s going to be a reality once more.

Big Buck is somehow still running, but I’m sure he’s been repainted and repaired a time or thirty. The lobby now holds chairs and tables, whereas before, it was just booths to change out of your skates. There are over twenty TVs, some only showing feeds of the rinks, but others show sports, and there’s even a little-kid area with hockey goals. It’s all grown so much, and I’m incredibly proud.

I can see how excited Jett gets when he shows it off, and I can hear the pride in his voice. I’m engrossed in every detail he points out to me, as well as the smirk that plays on his face. And while I have so many questions, I don’t dare ask him. This is his time; I’m only here to observe.

Or maybe I’m speechless and confused because, while everything looks so different, it feels absolutely the same.

Just as walking the halls with Jett does.

He enters a code into the door that leads upstairs. “It’s your birthday,” he says softly so that no one hears. His admission makes my heart ache because I know it was my grandpa’s doing, and once more, I feel a wave of grief as I follow him up the stairs. I know I should be making sure I don’t fall up the stairs, but it’s hard to do anything other than check out the bubble butt this man has. His athletic shorts hide absolutely nothing, and I have the urge to bite his ass like a dog with a piece of meat.

Because that’s a normal thought.

I tear my gaze from his ass to his back, and still, I want to nibble on the tendons and muscles that meet my gaze. As he walks, his shoulders flex, the muscles bunching. When have I been turned on by someone’s back? That’s not my normal. Who am I?

When I decide that looking at the ceiling is my best bet, I, of course, trip because that’s my life. I don’t fall, thankfully, but I scold myself as I continue to follow him up, while he has no clue the turmoil his body is bringing me. We enter a waiting area, which has four offices to the left. He points to the first one. “Mine, then Phillip’s. Or, I guess, now yours.”

His voice is rough with grief and leaves me breathless as he pushes my grandfather’s office door open for me. I know that Kitty decorated by the soft greens and muted browns of the room. Large bookcases hold different coaching, hockey, and figure skating books. Photos of Kitty and me are everywhere, at all ages, and even us together on the ice when she used to work with me. His hockey equipment is in the corner, his sticks and random gear beside it. Framed cross-stitches of hockey sticks, pucks, and a goal hang on the walls. It’s like a shrine to everything that Phillip loved. The large wooden desk in the middle of the room has been passed down through our family. I can still see him behind the desk, a desk I’ll be sitting behind now.

I know my dad wants it, but he can’t have it. Not yet. Maybe when I leave.

I cross and uncross my fingers, a nervous habit of mine, as I look around my grandfather’s space. It smells like him, all woodsy like cedar. It brings a small smile to my face as I look out the floor-to-ceiling windows that reveal a scenic view of the mountain. It’s a breathtaking vista.

Or so I think, because when I look over my shoulder, I find that I like the view of Jett Thomas Cook even more.

“I’m sure Kitty will help you switch things around. Make it your own.”

His hair is falling every which way, and his brown eyes are intent on me. His arms are thick, bulging, and covered in tattoos. The Pink Belles shirt he wears is a little too big, but it doesn’t make him look small. No, nothing could ever do that. A wave of desire rushes through my body, catching me so off guard I grip the side of the desk and take a deep breath. I don’t understand these wild feelings I have when he looks at me. But then, has anyone ever looked at me the way Jett does?

Like I’m the only person in the world he wants to look at.

As if devouring me would be the best meal of his day.

I usually hate when people look at me, but under his gaze, I feel just fine.

I crave it.

I draw a deep breath as he asks, “Fable, you good?”

I nod quickly, inhaling sharply before blowing out the breath to center myself. “Fine, just overwhelmed.”

It’s not a lie. I am just that, but I’m sure he thinks it’s because I’ve lost someone important to me and not because I want to know what would happen if he touched me. Would heat explode between us? Or is it the unknown that has me going? What if I kissed him? Could I enjoy it? Would I like his taste? Could I orgasm with him? Would I lose my train of thought and think about what I want for dinner? I don’t know, but I want to know.

And that terrifies me to no end.

Would he want me?

Holy shit, why am I thinking these things?

“Why aren’t you married?” I blurt out, and instantly, my face floods with heat. Did I really just blurt that out? To Jett?

What. Is. Wrong. With. Me?

I’m met with silence, and eventually, I look up at him to find him watching me. He crosses his arms over his chest as we lock eyes. His face gives nothing away, and I don’t know if he’s surprised by my question or offended. Instead, he simply asks, “Why aren’t you?”

I shrug, and while I don’t want to answer him, I know I need to since I was the one to ask first. I go with the generic answer. “I’ve been busy, and I haven’t found someone I want to settle down with.”

“Been looking, though?”

His words are rough, his eyes searching mine. “When I can,” I say, and he nods.

“Same,” he says, and just like my answer, I feel his is equally as generic. But there is more. His eyes move down my body and back up, leaving a trail of heat I’ve never experienced in my life. I swallow hard and then lick my lips. He tracks the movement with his eyes, and I don’t know if he’s going to leave or push me onto my grandfather’s desk.

Is it bad I’m hoping for the latter?

He looks away, filling his chest with air before he lets it out on a long sigh. “Come on. I’ll show you the apartments.”

Jett leaves the room, and I swear I’m able to take in my first real breath. He just monopolizes the air around me. And the way he looks at me…? He has me on an edge I don’t understand. I want to fall so desperately, and that doesn’t make any sense whatsoever. What edge am I on? What am I falling for? I have no clue. But one thing is for sure, I haven’t felt like this in my whole life. While it freaks me out, it also thrills me.

I just wish I knew what it was.

My mouth is dry, and I lift my head when I hear him call my name. I rush out of the office and cross the lobby to the door he is waiting in front of. “This code is my birthday.”

I press my lips together as he pushes the door open, and we enter another lobby area. Unlike the previous space with couches and a table, this is just a room with three doors. He pushes open the first two that mirror each other, revealing a kitchen, a bar for eating at, an en suite bathroom, and a large bed in the middle of the room with a TV on the wall. When he opens the third door, I know it’s his room. Unlike the first two rooms, which are painted a light green, his is slate gray with black and white accents. It’s very monotone but very Jett. Broken sticks are lying in the corner, and he has a huge black leather couch with an even bigger TV on the wall. The bed in the corner is large to accommodate his big frame, with soft sheets that I have the urge to touch.

I move past him for a better look, and he grumbles, “It’s a bit of a mess.”

I shake my head. “This isn’t a mess. It’s lived-in.”

I don’t get far before his scent almost makes me trip over myself. He smells like I remember, leather and amber. I remember when we’d hug after a skate and I’d run my nose along his collarbone to get a sniff. Just for a hit. Like I was an addict. I’ve been without for so long that it takes everything in me not to revert to my addicted ways.

“You smell nice,” I say, once again without thinking.

I glance over my shoulder, and his eyes move to mine, longing in his brown gaze. He doesn’t smile, though, that furrow between his brows tormenting me. “Thanks.”

“Living up to that pretty boy name,” I tease, and his lips quirk.

“I don’t think it’s pretty boy anymore—more so grumpy ass.”

I bring my brows together. “Why?”

He shrugs. “Comes with age, I guess. Just don’t have time for bullshit. Got a business to run.”

I roll my lips and nod as I continue to look around. Unable to resist, I move to his bed and run my fingers along his sheets. They’re so soft, so silky, and I want to nuzzle them. Especially since I know they smell just like him.

“Still obsessed with blankets?”

I smile shyly but don’t look at him. “Yeah.”

“Still got that Goofy one?”

I feel my eyes widen, my lips spreading in a grin that takes up my whole face. “I do.” His chuckle hits me square in the gut, and needing to ignore it, I ask, “You live here alone?”

“I do.”

“Don’t you get lonely here?”

“No, not at all.”

I shrug. “It’s nice, I guess.”

He doesn’t comment, but I feel his gaze on me. I move to a bookshelf that has a photo of us at Salt Lake, and his gold medal is in a holder beside it. Unlike the photo on the banner outside, this one is of when he kissed my nose. For months, almost years, not a moment went by when I didn’t still feel his soft lips on the tip of my nose. I thought of that moment over and over, trying to analyze it and figure out what it meant. His mouth never came as close to mine as that, and when it did, I froze instead of doing what I really wanted.

I run my finger along the glass of the photo. “I heard you got hurt.”

He doesn’t answer right away, and when he does, I realize that he’s closer than I thought. “Yeah, my junior year. I shattered my knee. It took four surgeries to fix it.”

I don’t take my eyes off the photo of us, my mind reliving every moment of that skate. The feel of his fingers in mine. His hands on my body. How he caught me with ease and held me so reverently. The way our bodies moved in sync for our series of jumps and twists. I didn’t have to see the video to know we were right in time with each other. Hell, we were probably breathing at the same cadence. Was his heart beating as out of control as mine was? Did he feel the shift?

Or was it all in my head?

“Did you get your degree?”

“I did, but in Knoxville,” he answers, his voice somewhat sad. I want to look back at him, but I don’t dare do so.

“That’s good,” I say softly.

Just close your eyes. It’s only you and me.

I find myself closing my eyes as I mutter, “I’m glad it all worked out for you.”

He doesn’t answer, and the silence has me looking over my shoulder to find his eyes on me. Is that pain in his gaze? Regret? Surely not. What does he have to regret? He went for his dreams, and while they didn’t work out the way he wanted, he still went for them. His shoulders move with each breath he takes, and I swear he wants to say something.

But what?

We stare at each other, our chests rising and falling a lot faster than they need to. We’re standing still, but I feel like I’m skating in circles.

With him.

Unable to handle the silence, I force a chuckle before I joke, “The only thing you’re missing is a copy of The Cutting Edge .”

His face breaks, and he shakes his head. “I have it.”

I let out a loud belly laugh, and he grins at me. “How could I not? It inspired our whole story.”

I look away, my face warming. “I still can’t believe they had us skate to ‘Feels Like Forever’ by Joe Cocker.”

Kitty’s idea worked in our favor, though. The hockey player turned ice skater skating to the theme song of the movie with the same premise. Yeah, people ate it up.

“Hey now. Don’t talk about my favorite song like that,” he teases, and my heart sings. Even though we heard it a million times, it’s still on all my playlists.

Just to remind me of that time together.

Not that I need it.

Jett leans into the door, the smile I love most on his face. “I’m just glad they didn’t have us do the Pamchenko Twist.”

I snort. “You know that’s not real.”

“Hey, it was in a movie. It was real.” My face hurts from smiling so hard. Looking so damn sure of himself, he says, “And I’m certain we could have pulled it off.”

I roll my eyes at his cockiness. “Probably. Since you’d never let me fall.”

My words come out breathier than I intended, but they’re true. Jett didn’t drop me unless it was completely out of his control. He was always so careful with me. On and off the ice.

“Never.”

My heart jumps up into my throat at his word, our eyes locking once more. The silence is so thick I feel like I’m choking, but I don’t dare look away. The way he looks at me has me burning up from inside, and it’s too much. Needing to fill the silence—and change the subject—I tell him, “Everything looks awesome. You’ve done great with this place.”

He slowly nods. Gone is the playfulness, replaced by a blank look I don’t understand. Why is he looking at me like that? What does he need to say? His brows furrow, and his eyes darken as he bites out, “How’s this going to work, Fable?”

His question catches me off guard. “I don’t know,” I admit softly, holding his gaze. “I want to work with you, not against you—I know that.”

“But when you’re gone, this place will still be mine.”

“I am aware.”

His eyes are hard as he pushes off the wall. He holds my gaze, not looking like the boy I knew but like a man I’d give my left tit to know. “So, I think you should follow my lead. In the end, this place is mine, and I’ll be the one running it.”

And then, just like most men, he’s opened his big mouth. I don’t disagree with him, but his delivery has my eyes narrowing. He’s acting like I’m someone who doesn’t know how to run this rink or help it grow. I’m an asset, but he wants me to follow his lead. When, obviously, he’s done nothing with the figure skating program. He must see the fight blazing in my eyes because he stands a bit taller, almost as if he’s preparing for battle.

My voice is menacing as I demand, “Why isn’t figure skating taking off?”

He balks at my question, his eyes searching mine. “I haven’t had time. Phillip and I have been looking for someone to take it over.”

“So, you need me.”

Indignation flashes in his eyes. “I don’t need anyone,” he tries, but he’s so wrong and we both know it.

“Eh, but you do,” I correct, turning to face him. “I am one of the most sought-after figure skating coaches in the country. I not only know how to coach, but I know how to build a program. And I don’t know if you realize this, but a lot of what I suggested over the years, my grandfather was implementing.”

He presses his lips together. “I recently learned that.”

“So, you know I’m good at my job and that I know what I’m doing.”

“I never said you didn’t?—”

“No, you suggested I should follow your lead, which blows my mind because you’ve worked with me. You know my work ethic. I don’t follow anyone’s lead, and I won’t be following yours.”

“Fable—”

“I know it seems like my grandfather is making me stay here for Kitty, and I’m sure that was his main concern, but he knew what I can offer. What I can provide you with. The figure skating program is trash and undeveloped. Why is the pro shop devoid of anything figure skating? Why are only three girls signed up? Who is coaching them?”

“Chelsea Cutler.”

I bring in my brows. The only reason I know that name is because I saw it listed under the hockey coaches on the website. The website doesn’t even have a figure skating section. “She’s a hockey coach, not a figure skater.” I let out a frustrated breath. “I realize that you feel betrayed, even blindsided by my grandfather’s decision. But after seeing what I’m seeing, I know he did it this way to help you in the end. Don’t fight me on this.”

His eyes are pure fire as he stares down at me. Anyone else would be intimidated by him, and I now know why they call him a grumpy ass. He fits the part perfectly. But I know Jett Cook. I have landed on top of him because he wouldn’t allow me to hit the ice. He may be upset, but he wouldn’t hurt me. Through gritted teeth, he mutters, “I could figure it out.”

I shrug. “Sure, but that’s not an option.” His eyes narrow, and I don’t dare look away from his heated gaze. “We can work together, pretty boy, or we can clash. The choice is yours.”

Silence stretches between us, his jaw ticking, and I notice his fists clenching by his armpits.

“I don’t have a choice.”

“I guess you don’t,” I say with a nod. “So, I’ll see you bright and early Monday.”

Neither of us moves, though, and the tension in the room is palpable. He doesn’t want me here. He doesn’t want my help. But he’s going to get it anyway.

I’m here for a year, and I’m going to help him put this building on the map for all ice sports.

He knows I won’t look away first, just as I know he won’t. Instead, our glares deepen before he mutters, “You’re not going to make this easy for me, are you?”

I grin ever so sweetly as I go toe-to-toe with him. “When have I ever?”