Page 11

Chapter 11

A Total Dumpster Fire

Nora

I ’d been on edge all week.

Physically, I was fine, and the morning sickness that had me worshipping the porcelain goddess had mysteriously disappeared after a few days. I was pretty sure it was the universe’s way of making room for the crushing anxiety that had taken its place. My brain? A total dumpster fire.

Any day now, I’d get a notification that would determine whether my entire career was about to implode.

I checked my phone again. No missed calls. No texts from the testing facility. No life-altering news... yet. Just the same text from Carter I’d been staring at all day.

Carter: Thinking of you both today.

Both. As in me and the baby currently setting up shop in my uterus. The baby that might be his. Or might be a player’s. A very talented, very stubborn player who happened to be a complete and utter asshole.

The player who, thankfully, I was not currently coaching.

For the past thirty minutes, I’d been working with Miles on a few issues that had cropped up since the season started. Unlike certain other players, Miles took direction without argument, making small adjustments based on my feedback without a single eye roll or smart-ass comment.

As Miles moved through the drill again, I stared off into space. It had been a problem during every single one-on-one session today, but thankfully none of the players had noticed.

Except for Miles.

“You seem distracted.” Miles came to a stop beside me. “Everything okay?”

I blinked, snapping back to the present, and loosened my grip on the stopwatch, realizing how tightly I’d been clutching it. “Sorry. Just tired.”

I forced a smile, guilt pinching at my insides. I hated lying, even by omission, but I couldn’t exactly blurt out, “Actually, I’m pregnant, and I’m waiting to find out if your best friend is the father so I can determine if my career is completely screwed!”

Instead, I demonstrated the next transition sequence I wanted him to practice, pushing off into a backward crossover that flowed into an inside-to-outside edge change.

“You’re losing about half a second on the switch from backward to forward; enough time for a defender to catch you instead of you breaking free.”

Miles nodded, watching intently. “Show me again?”

I repeated the movement, emphasizing the weight shift that powered the change of direction. As I finished, a strange weightlessness swept over me, like stepping off a curb I hadn’t seen. I recovered quickly, hoping Miles hadn’t noticed.

No such luck.

“You okay?” His forehead creased with concern.

“Fine. Turned too fast.” I waved away his concern. “Your turn.”

To his credit, Miles dropped it and focused on the drill. He executed the sequence with near-perfect form, making the minor adjustments I suggested.

“Much better.” I nodded approvingly after his fifth run. “That’s exactly what I’m looking for. I think we can call it a night.”

I glanced at the digital display on the scoreboard, the bright red numbers declaring it was nearly nine. The facility had that special kind of emptiness that only came after hours, with just the low hum of the cooling system and the occasional echo of a door closing somewhere in the distance.

Miles took a long drink from his water bottle, a few drops escaping to trail down his chin. He wiped them away with the back of his hand, studying me with that quiet intensity that made me wonder how much he actually noticed. “You heading home to get some rest?”

“I thought I might get some skating in first. It’s been a while since I’ve had the ice to myself.” The idea of going home to stare at my phone and overthink everything had zero appeal. What I needed was to lose myself in a playlist of angsty pop songs and the meditative rhythm of edges carving ice.

“Mind if I hang around and watch?” Miles’s tone was deliberately light in that way people use when they’re trying very hard to sound like they don’t care about the answer. It was the same way he’d sound if he were asking about the weather while secretly hoping for a blizzard to cancel school.

“I don’t mind, but don’t expect any jumps.” I fiddled with the zipper of my jacket, the familiar click-click-click giving my restless fingers something to do. Even if muscle memory and my right leg could still carry me through them, it wasn’t worth the risk with my current situation. Should I even be on the ice?

“No expectations.” He skated backward toward the bench, the soft scrape of his blades echoing in the empty rink. “I’ll sit here quietly and pretend I’m not judging your every move.”

“Charming.” I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help the smile tugging at my lips. Miles had a way of making his sass sound sweet.

As he settled onto the bench, taking off his bulky equipment, I pulled out my phone and connected it to the arena’s Bluetooth speaker system. I needed music that matched my mood: complicated, a little melancholy, but with an undercurrent of determination. I settled on a song and set my phone on the boards.

I skated to center ice, taking a moment to center myself. It had been weeks since I’d skated just for me—not demonstrating, not coaching, just... skating.

The first piano notes echoed through the empty arena. I closed my eyes, letting the music wash over me, feeling it settle into my bones. Then I pushed off, giving myself to the ice.

This wasn’t a choreographed routine but a collection of elements I loved, strung together by emotion rather than technical requirements. I started with a simple spiral, extending my free leg behind me as I glided forward, then transitioned into a series of three-turns and mohawks that followed the ebb and flow of the music.

For those few minutes, I wasn’t Nora Hastings, skating coach with a career in question. I was just... me. Moving across the ice like I’d been born to do it, like my body remembered who I was supposed to be. As the music built, I moved into a fast sequence of twizzles and then a layback spin.

I was so lost in the moment that I barely registered when the song ended and another began. I slowed, intending to stop, when Miles approached with his hand extended, a question in his eyes. Without thinking, I took it.

He guided me into a simple dance hold, his right hand light against my back. “I hope you don’t mind. It’s been a while since I’ve done this.”

And then we were moving together, Miles leading me through a pattern I knew from watching ice dance competitions. His hold was confident but gentle, creating a frame that allowed me to follow his direction while still expressing my own style.

The music shifted, growing more intense, and Miles adjusted accordingly. His hand at my back became more secure as we picked up speed, moving as one unit across the ice. There was something remarkably intimate about it. It wasn’t sexual, exactly, but deeply connected. Two bodies finding harmony in motion.

When the final chorus hit, my breath caught as his hands found my waist, lifting me like I weighed nothing. I extended my arms, trusting him completely as he turned slowly before setting me back on the ice with care.

As the song faded, we came to a natural stop, facing each other, closer than we’d been before. Miles was looking at me with an expression I couldn’t quite decipher. His hand was still at my waist, steadying me, and I became acutely aware of how little space separated us.

For one hormone-addled moment, I thought about closing that gap. About finding out if his lips were as gentle as his hands.

Then reality crashed back in. I was his coach. I was pregnant with possibly his best friend’s baby. I was a complete disaster who had no business adding another complication to my already spectacularly complicated life.

I stepped back a little too abruptly. My blade caught, and I stumbled, my usual perfect balance deserting me.

Miles’s reflexes were lightning-fast. His arm shot out, catching me before I could fall, pulling me securely against him. “Whoa, I’ve got you. Are you okay?”

“Fine.” My heart was racing, and not just from the stumble. His chest was solid against mine, warm and steady. And too damn close. “Lost my footing.”

He didn’t let go, his eyes searching my face. “Nora, what’s going on with you? And don’t say nothing.”

“Like I said, I’m tired.” I tried to pull away, but Miles kept his gentle hold.

“It’s more than that. Are you getting sick?” The genuine concern in his eyes made my throat tight. Miles was too perceptive for his own good and for mine.

“I’m not sick.” Not technically a lie. Pregnancy wasn’t an illness, right?

“Then what is it?” His hand moved to my upper arm, thumb rubbing small circles. “You know you can talk to me, right? Not as a player, but as a friend.”

For a wild second, I considered telling him everything, but the words stuck in my throat. I pushed back, and this time he let me go. “Thank you for the dance. You’re full of surprises, Collins.”

He recognized the deflection for what it was, disappointment flickering briefly across his features before he masked it with a light smile. “My secret talent. Don’t tell the guys, okay? They already think I’m too soft for a hockey player.”

“Your secret’s safe with me.”

As we turned to skate toward the bench, we both tensed like guilty teenagers caught sneaking in after curfew. Coach Lovell sat there, still as a statue, watching us with his practiced blank coach expression.

My mind raced through exactly how this must have looked from his perspective: the lift, the closeness, that charged moment that definitely hadn’t been strictly professional.

Shit. Double shit. “Coach. You’re here late,” I managed, aiming for casual but landing somewhere closer to worried. The chill from the ice seemed to seep right through my layers.

“As are you.” His gaze ping-ponged between Miles and me. “Had a meeting.”

Beside me, Miles didn’t say a word. But his silence had weight, like he was bracing for impact.

I dropped onto the bench, focusing intently on my laces while pretending my boss hadn’t potentially witnessed what could be seen as an intimate moment with one of his players. The familiar motions of unlacing my skates gave my fidgety hands something useful to do besides gesturing wildly in panic.

Coach rose from his seat, and I could practically feel his stare without looking up. “You’re not trying to steal my captain to be your new skating partner, are you?”

I laughed, too loudly, trying to match his tone. Was that a joke? Or the start of a very uncomfortable conversation? “Tempting, but I think he’d get tired of me correcting his clumsy footwork.”

Miles let out a dramatic gasp, pressing a hand to his chest like I’d mortally wounded him. “Excuse you, I was flawless out there.”

Coach Lovell raised an eyebrow. “I don’t need my captain breaking an ankle trying to keep up with you, so let’s keep the ice dancing to a minimum, yeah?”

I gave him a salute. “Yes, sir. Although I don’t think his parents would appreciate you shooting down their hopes and dreams of him becoming an ice dancer.”

Miles smirked. “Hey, never say never. If the whole hockey thing doesn’t work out…”

Coach Lovell exhaled sharply and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Get off my ice. Both of you.”

I stood and grabbed my bag as Miles slung an arm around my shoulders like we were old teammates rather than coach and player. Too familiar. Too easy. And way too risky. “C’mon, partner. Our adoring fans await.”

I rolled my eyes but let him steer me toward the exit, ignoring the warmth that lingered from his touch.

Coach gave us one long, weary look before muttering, “I don’t get paid enough for this.”