Page 14 of At the Edge with You (Beer League Belles #1)

CHAPTER

FOURTEEN

Fable

I usually skate daily to maintain my endurance and keep my skills up to par, but for the last two weeks, I’ve skated so I don’t murder Jett Cook.

Alanis Morissette’s Jagged Little Pill fills the rink as I dig my skates into the ice and skate off my frustration. He makes me crazy. It doesn’t matter what I suggest; he has an issue with it. I want to advertise the figure skating program during Beer League games, but he says it’s dumb because no one is reading ads, they’re watching him play.

Cocky asshole!

I suggest we do an overhaul of the pro shop, but he doesn’t want to give up his hockey space. When I said I’ll take one of the birthday rooms, he lost his damn mind and caved on the space in the pro shop. Everything I need to do to get the figure skating program afloat, he doesn’t agree with. I want to revamp our budget, but he doesn’t want to give more money to the program because it’s not bringing in money. Doesn’t he know you’ve got to spend money to make money! In the two weeks since our first meeting, the only thing he’s agreed to is the email newsletter, as long as I’m the one doing it.

He’s a fucking pain!

I’m sure he is so disagreeable because he loves to see me lose it. Each time I start yelling or snapping at him, he gets this grin on his face that I want to smack right the hell off. He doesn’t stop staring at my boobs, and I swear he is flirting with me. But that can’t be. He has never flirted with me before, but I can see his eyes wander, and a heated look settles in his gaze every time.

He confuses the hell out of me, but I know that’s his game plan.

Drive me so damn crazy that I leave.

Jackass.

I’m going to stay just to drive him as crazy as he’s driving me!

I do a series of leaps so I don’t go to the east rink where he is currently coaching and throttle him. We have continued our morning meetings, in which we spend an hour going back and forth about everything I want to do. This morning was extra rough since he doesn’t want to spend the amount we need to upgrade the west rink.

I don’t understand how my grandpa let this rink get so shitty. While the ice is pristine, everything else is so run-down. The walls are white and chipping, the boards are all scuffed up and dented. The benches for skaters to sit on are rotten, and I had to pick a splinter out of my ass just last week. The same goes for the bleachers. They are the same from the ’90s, made of now-rotten wood, with big, open gaps between the seating rows that children can fall into. It’s not family-friendly, and I can’t coach under these conditions.

I took over coaching this week with my three skaters, and while they’re amazing kids with so much potential, I can’t enjoy myself because I hate seeing their families having to stand. I can’t help the feeling that they think they’re wasting their time and money because everything is so outdated. I want this to be comfortable, a home for my skaters.

Just as it is for me.

When I told this to Jett, he didn’t seem concerned. No matter what I want, he fights back. And today, I left before we could even reach a compromise. I couldn’t handle him anymore; all I wanted to do was blast some rage music and skate so that orange doesn’t become my only wardrobe color choice.

As I skate backward, my hair flying in the wind I’m making, I lose myself to the music. I allow myself to move to each beat, dancing and making up my own moves as I sing along to all my favorites. While I move, I almost consider bringing in Bea to help me, to convince Jett to agree with me. But I won’t show that kind of weakness.

If Jett wants to do battle, well, I have no issue going toe-to-toe with him.

Follow his lead, over my dead body.

I glare at nothing, my whole face scrunching up as I shift into a two-foot spin. I spin more times than required, but I need the rush. I love the feeling of almost falling. It makes me feel alive.

When I come out of the spin, I find that I’m not alone. A teenage girl leans on the bench, her dark reddish-brown hair up in a high ponytail with lots of strands falling in her eyes. As I come to a stop, I take in her bright-blue eyes, her cherubic cheeks, and with her size, she reminds me of me when I was her age. I put a smile on my face as I skate over to her. Her eyes widen, almost as if she’s coming out of a trance. She stands up straight as I reach her, and she looks so uncomfortable, I’m worried she’ll run.

“Hey,” I say softly. “I’m Fable. How are you?”

She gives me a timid smile. “Hi. Sorry, I saw you skating and wanted to come watch.”

“No problem. This wasn’t a closed skate. Do you skate?”

She shakes her head. “I play hockey, but I want to do what you do.”

“Why don’t you?”

She fiddles with the edge of her tee. It’s a Belles tee, so her dad or mom must play. “Um, that’s another reason why I came in,” she admits softly. “I’ve played hockey my whole life, but I just don’t like it. And when you took over the program, my dad suggested I come talk to you.”

I beam at her, and I notice she’s on skates. “Awesome. I’d love to work with you. Why don’t you come skate with me?”

Her eyes fill with excitement. “Really?”

“Really,” I agree, beckoning her out onto the ice. “But first, you gotta tell me your name.”

Her face flushes. “Skyye Moore.”

I bring in my brows as her features register. “Dean Moore’s your dad?”

She’s his twin, and she obviously adores him. Such pride fills her gaze. “Yup.”

I envy that look. I wish I were proud of who my dad is. Now, if you mention Kitty or my grandpa, I’m sure I have the same look. “I grew up with him.”

“Yeah, he told me, and it’s why he’s encouraging me to take up figure skating. Because of you.”

My heart warms as she comes out onto the ice. She’s a sweet girl, very shy, which is surprising with how rambunctious Dean was when we were kids. I remember him and Jett running amok through town and causing pure mayhem on the ice. They were like the Bash Brothers from the Mighty Ducks . Two meatheads running into everyone but then scoring like they didn’t just rock your world three seconds ago. It was a blast to watch.

It doesn’t take long for me to realize that, like Dean, she is very talented and easily coached. Every correction I have, she makes with ease. She listens, and after only an hour, I know I want to work with her. “What are your goals?”

She swallows hard. “I know I’ll never make the Olympics. I’m too old.”

I bring in my brows. “That’s not true. How old are you?”

“Fourteen.”

I wave her off. “I went at eighteen, and I’m sure you know Jett. He only had four years before he went.”

She chews on her lip. “But that’s because of you. You were so talented, it made him look good.”

I snort at that, and even though I am two seconds from hiding his body in the woods my mother loves so much, I admit, “While I appreciate the praise, Jett was actually extremely talented and worked really hard to complement me on the ice. If anything, I skated so well because of him.”

My parents would argue that till they’re blue in the face, but I know the truth.

We wouldn’t have won without each other.

Her eyes widen at that. “Really? Dad always says it’s because of you.”

I smile. “Really. Just like Jett, you’re a natural.”

Skyye’s eyes fill with hope. “So, you think…”

Her voice trails off, and I shrug.

“I think if you work for it, you could make it.”

“But if not, think I can skate for Disney on Ice?”

I grin widely. “Oh, that’s a given.”

Skyye’s whole body lights up, and when she gives a little wiggle of excitement, my heart sings. It’s moments like these that fill my cup. I never thought I wanted to coach when I was younger, but it truly is my calling.

When her gaze moves past me, I turn to see Dean Moore standing at the entrance by the glass. Dean has always been a handsome guy; he was a heartthrob when we were younger, and no one could ever lock him down. He has shaggy reddish-brown hair with the lightest blue eyes I’ve ever seen. He’s massive, but then, everyone is bigger than me. Even twenty years later, he’s as handsome as he was when we were kids, all sharp angles to his face and a proud nose. Beside me, Skyye waves, and he smiles, waving back, admiration in his eyes for his girl.

When his eyes fall on me, I smile and then say to Skyye, “Why don’t you go through the series we just went over, and I’ll go talk to your dad?”

“You’ll take me on?” she asks, so hopeful, I’m breathless.

“Yup, you’re stuck with me,” I say, squeezing her shoulder. “I’ll be back.”

I skate toward the boards where the door is and open it with more force than I should have to. If the boards were replaced, then I wouldn’t have this problem.

Damn Jett.

I plaster on my customer-service smile as I step out onto the padding that needs to be replaced too. I’ll just add that to the endless list that I’ll fight Jett on. Dean’s smile steals my attention as I come up to him. To my surprise, he pulls me in for a tight hug. I’ve seen him three times now at the Belles’ games, so I’m unsure why he’s hugging me this time.

He pulls back, holding my biceps. His hands are big, warm, and when I look up into his blue gaze, gratitude swirls in his blue depths. “I haven’t seen her smile like that in a long time.”

My lips curve into a real smile. “She’s a great kid.”

He nods in agreement. “She’s my world.” His devotion is beautiful.

Breathless, I say, “She wants to work with me, and I want the same, if that’s okay with you.”

He doesn’t even have a chance to answer me, though, as the rink door flies open, crashing into the wall. Before I can add that to my list of things that need fixing, my gaze falls on a very bare-chested, very angry Jett. He prowls toward us, his brows furrowed and his fists clenched at his sides. His chest is a masterpiece of all kinds of colors, and I want so badly to examine each part of him. I knew he was tatted, but hot damn, he’s a work of art. His chest is wide, thick, and even without the abs he had when we were younger, he’s mouthwatering. I tear my eyes from his chest to take in his shorts and his hockey socks that go up to his knees. He has no shoes on, and I don’t know why he looks like he’s about to lose his cool.

It isn’t until he reaches out, removing each of Dean’s hands, that I cock my head to the side.

Wait, does he not want Dean touching me?

Surely that’s not it.

But when Dean only laughs, shaking his head, he tells Jett, “Cool it, JT.” He continues to laugh, but Jett doesn’t, and I’m too shocked to move. “We’re talking about Skyye.”

“Don’t need to touch her for that.”

I gawk up at him and, without thinking, I ask, “Why does it matter if he touches me or not?”

Jett turns his heated gaze on me, his eyes searching mine. “Because I said so.”

Those four words send heat straight to my core. I feel a gush of wetness, and I’m breathless at the feeling. He says it like it’s so simple, though it’s anything but. I want to argue, but what the hell do I say to that? Not that I think I could actually form words anyway.

My eyes fall to his chest once more, like a perv, and I mutter, “Where is your shirt?”

His eyes don’t leave mine, but his lips curve just the slightest bit, like he’s fighting a grin. “Not on my body.”

I flash him a bored look. “Well, you need to find one. Your nipples are cutting glass.”

Jett full-out grins at me now, the tension so thick between us, a part of me wants to run and hide, while the other wants to drown in the emotions building between us. With a smirk that should be illegal, he says, “Hey, now. You can’t talk about my nipples if we can’t talk about yours.”

Dean sputters with laughter, and all I can do is gawk at Jett as he grins down at me, so damn pleased with himself.

Meanwhile, all I want to do is rub my thighs together.

What is he doing to me?