Page 29

Beck

The sound of steel blades cutting through ice fills the empty rink as I settle into the bleachers with my coffee, watching my daughter practice her routine for the upcoming Olympics in Italy.

At this hour—six a.m.—the rink belongs entirely to Remi, her coach having unlocked it early so she can work on the triple axel that's been eluding her for weeks.

She moves across the ice like poetry in motion, all grace and controlled power. Her dark hair is pulled back in a severe bun, and even from this distance, I can see the fierce concentration on her face as she approaches the jump.

She launches herself into the air, spinning—one, two—but something goes wrong. Her rotation is off, her landing awkward, and she crashes hard onto the ice, her left leg twisting beneath her with the sound of the thud echoing through the space.

"Shit," I breathe, already moving toward the rink as Remi struggles to get up, her face contorted in pain and frustration.

I pull her off the cold ice and help as she slides toward the boards, one hand pressed against her left thigh, tears of anger more than pain streaming down her face.

When she reaches the barrier, she slams her fist against it.

"Remi—" I start, but she cuts me off.

"I can't do it anymore, Dad. I just can't." Her voice breaks on the words. "Six months until Italy, and I'm getting worse, not better. What the hell is wrong with me?"

I climb down to the ice level, opening the gate so she can step off. "Hey, take a breath. You just won your competition last week—"

"That was different. That was easier jumps, basic combinations. This—" She gestures helplessly at the ice. "I used to land this in my sleep. Now I can barely complete two rotations without feeling like my body's going to fall apart."

She's still favoring her left leg, and I can see her rubbing her thigh unconsciously. Something about her whole demeanor seems off—not just frustrated, but almost...fragile.

"Are you ill?" I ask gently. "You seem different lately. Tired, maybe?"

Remi looks away, suddenly interested in unlacing her skates. "I'm fine."

"Remi."

"I said I'm fine, Dad."

But she's not fine, and we both know it. I've watched her skate for years, seen her push through injuries and setbacks, and this isn't normal competitive stress.

This is something else.

"When did you last have bloodwork to check your suppressants were working?" I ask quietly.

Her hands are still on her skates. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, when did you last have your levels checked? Your body feels weird—your words from last week, remember?"

She's quiet for a long moment, and when she looks up, there's something almost desperate in her eyes. "I think... I think I need to change them. My body doesn't feel right. Everything's off—my balance, my strength, even my focus. It's like I'm fighting against myself."

The fear in her voice makes my chest tighten. "How long have you been feeling like this?"

"A few weeks, maybe a month. I kept thinking it would pass, that it was just stress about the Olympics, but..."

"But it's getting worse."

She nods miserably. "What if it's too late, Dad? What if I've screwed up my body so badly that I can't compete at the level I need to?"

"Hey." I sit down beside her on the bench, pulling her into a side hug. "It might be too late to make major changes before Italy, but that doesn't mean you can't compete. We just need to figure out what's going on."

"I'll talk to my doctor," she says, leaning into me. "And I'm coming back tomorrow to train with Coach. I'll have a chat with her too, see if she's noticed anything."

"Excellent plan." I kiss the top of her head. "And Remi? Even if the Olympics don't go exactly as planned, you're still one of the best skaters in the world. That doesn't change."

"For how long?"

"You know I'm proud of you regardless, right? Medal or no medal, you've already accomplished more than most athletes dream of."

"I know, Dad." Her smile is genuine now, soft with affection. "But I also know you understand why that's not enough for me right now."

She's right. I understand. The drive to excel, to push past limitations and achieve something extraordinary—as an ex-ice hockey player, it's carved into both our DNA and our upbringing.

The difference is that her ambition is pure, focused on something she loves, now mine is tangled up with responsibility and obligation.

"Breakfast?" I suggest as she unlaces her skates. "We can grab something at that café you like."

"That would be nice. And..." She hesitates, suddenly looking younger than her twenty-four years. "I was hoping we could talk about something."

My protective instincts immediately sharpen. "Everything okay?" There's something in Remi's tone that suggests this conversation is heading somewhere I might not like.

"Everything's fine. It's just..." She pulls on her shoes and grabs her bag. "It's about Steele."

"What about Steele?"

She's quiet for a moment, then: "Remember when he left?"

The subject change catches me off guard. "To join the Scented Scorpions? What about it?"

"He didn't even tell me he was considering it. I found out from River after he'd already signed. After two years of...whatever we were, and he just left." Her voice is bitter now, hurt in a way that goes deeper than professional disappointment.

"You feel betrayed."

"I feel stupid. Like I meant nothing to him."

"You were both busy, Remi. You and Steele were both so competitive that you trained together more than dated."

Understanding dawns slowly. "Is that why you kissed Crew at River's party?"

Remi freezes, her eyes going wide. "You saw that?"

"I overheard Steele arguing with River about it. He said you seemed to make a point."

"I wasn't—" she protests, then stops, her shoulders sagging. "Okay, maybe I was. Maybe I wanted Steele to see what he gave up."

"But River told Steele to forget about you and then he marched off to find Crew. I'm sure he told him the same."

"Ugh. Why doesn't River mind his own business?" Remi grumbles.

"Brotherly love."

"It's still none of his business."

"Remi." My voice carries all the gentle reproach I can manage. "You're playing with fire. Crew's a good kid, but using him to make someone else jealous isn't fair to anyone involved."

She winces, rubbing her thigh again. "I know. I just... I was angry. Anyway, Steele and Crew are leaving tomorrow."

"You seem angry about that."

"I'm not. You're right, I'm too busy, but…" She sighs. "And I'm just tired of feeling like everyone leaves, eventually."

The pain in her voice nearly breaks my heart. I'm about to respond when she suddenly gasps, pressing both hands against her leg.

"Remi? Do you need a doctor?"

"No, it's fine. I'll ice it at home." But she's still wincing as she stands, and I make a mental note to keep an eye on that injury. We gather her things and head toward the parking lot, Remi moving carefully beside me.

Once we're in the car, she settles back with a sigh.

"Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"When are you going to stop using work as an excuse and find someone who makes you happy?"

The question hits closer to home than she realizes. "I'm happy."

"You're content," she corrects. "There's a difference. When was the last time you went on a date?"

"I go out—"

"Business dinners don't count." She crosses her arms, adopting that stubborn expression that means she's not dropping this topic. "I'm talking about actual romantic interests. Someone who makes you smile the way you used to smile."

I'm quiet for a long moment, then: "There is someone."

"Really?" Her whole demeanor perks up. "Tell me about her."

"She's too young. I know I shouldn't pursue her."

"How young are we talking?"

"Twenty-one."

Remi's eyebrows shoot up so high they nearly disappear into her hairline. "Wow. Okay, that's...young."

"Which is why I know it's wrong."

"Is she mature for her age?"

"Remi—"

"I'm just asking! Some people are old souls, and some forty-year-olds act like teenagers. Age is just a number if you're both adults and you genuinely care about each other."

Before I can respond, my phone buzzes with an incoming call. Professor Benson's name appears on the screen, and something cold settles in my stomach.

"I need to take this," I tell Remi, answering on the second ring. "Professor?"

The conversation is brief but urgent, and when I hang up, Remi is watching me with concern.

"Everything okay?"

"I need to drop you at home," I say, already changing direction. "Something I need to attend to."

"Is it about the girl?"

"Possibly." I glance at her, noting she's still rubbing her thigh. "Will you be okay? Ice that leg, and if it gets worse—"

"I'll call you. Take me home and then handle whatever it is."

After dropping Remi home, my mind races between worry for Remi and whatever emergency Professor Benson has called about.

But underneath it all, one thought keeps circling back: if this is about Emmie, if she needs help, then nothing else matters right now.

Not age differences, not complications, not the hundred reasons caring about her might be a mistake.

She needs help, and I'll be there. Whatever it takes.

My anxiety is building by the time I reach Jude's apartment building. He rushes to my car, opening the door.

"She needs you."

Does she though?

"How bad is it?" I ask as we approach the building together.

"Her heat is controlled at the moment..." He stops walking, turning to face me with something raw and desperate in his eyes. "I'm going to stay in the room."

"You don't trust me?"

"I can't lose her. Not when I finally figured out what she means to me."

"You're a Beta, Jude. This is bigger than your feelings."

When Jude doesn't answer, I continue, this time a little calmer. "You won't lose her," I say firmly, though I'm not sure if I'm reassuring him or myself. "We'll figure this out. Together."

"Really?" His voice has a wistful sound to it that makes me stare at him for a beat too long.

"Let's get inside." Right now, Emmie needs us more than she's ever needed anyone. And maybe that includes the Beta.