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Most would consider the Barn a dumpy rink, but I loved it.

I loved the fact that they zammed at night, so there was always a layer of fog hanging in the air, and I loved the ancient flyers boasting of past championships hanging on the walls and from the old wooden rafters.

I loved the stereo system—I blasted my music, and no one was ever around to yell at me.

And I loved skating around freely, improvising moves, pretending I was creating a music video or show program.

What I didn’t love: the fact that Richard was nowhere to be seen.

Checking my watch, I assured myself that I was just early. There was still time for him to show up.

After lacing my skates, I glided to the music box, feeling my stomach tighten with nerves.

My threat to Richard last night was admittedly kind of empty, and he probably knew that, but I had to do something .

I couldn’t just let him quit, not when I knew how much he loved hockey and how good he was.

For a brief second, I considered asking Mer or Colt for help, but what good would it do?

They didn’t know him like I did. He came here , to me , for a reason, even if he didn’t know it yet.

With my favorite instrumental strings CD blasting through the rink, I set out to start my warm-up.

If Richard was still a no-show by the time I finished, then I’d have to track him down.

I’d bribe one of the frat guys he made friends with last night to tell me where he was living, and I’d drag him out of bed myself if that’s what it took.

I lost myself while warming up with some edge pulls and edge rolls. By the time I was moving into my first footwork pass, I heard the rink’s heavy door clang open.

My chest deflated with relief.

He was here—looking sickly pale and very disheveled, but that didn’t matter.

After disappearing from sight for a minute to lace up his skates, he made his way to the board’s door wearing sweatpants, a hoodie, and a helmet. He threw down a couple pucks before stepping on the ice.

“You’re late,” I announced.

Whirling around to see me, he lost his balance, and his skates flew up while his butt slammed down. He immediately groaned and rubbed his butt.

I skated over and stopped quickly, making snow fly at his helmet visor. I’d never seen him lose his balance on the ice before. “What’s wrong with you?” I asked, giving him a quizzical look.

He squeezed his eyes shut. “I’m hungover, Piper,” he groaned. “Actually, I might still be drunk.”

I harrumphed. “You can take that half of the ice.” I pointed to my left. “And don’t cross the red line. This side is mine.”

“Okay,” he grumbled, slowly pushing up to his feet.

“I’m serious. Don’t cross it,” I bit out.

“Okay, chill,” he said softly.

After about fifteen minutes of skating, Kappy stood on the red line, gazing longingly at the music box entrance, which was conveniently on my side of the ice.

“Piper, I can’t with this music. Please turn something else on. Something with voices, please,” he begged.

Rolling my eyes, I skated over to the music box. Sifting through the random burned CD’s, I found what I was looking for and grinned.

A second later, the Mamma Mia soundtrack blasted through the rink speakers.

“For the love of God! ABBA?” he called out, throwing his arms up. “This is worse!”

I cackled. “This is my favorite! Get to work, Richard! This ice is for winners. If you’re not gonna skate, then get off.” I jutted my chin to the entrance and held my breath, hoping he wouldn’t actually leave.

With drooping shoulders, he turned and went into another puck drill, making the tension ease in my chest. He wasn’t skating with his usual exhilaration, but at least he was here, getting time on the ice.

When I skated to the boards for a water break, Kappy stopped on his side of the ice and leaned his chin on the butt of his stick. “You know this is pointless, right? I tried my hardest, played my best.” A muscle in his jaw fluttered. “They didn’t want me, Piper.”

“No, you didn’t,” I said simply, setting my water down.

His face cracked in frustration. “How can you say—”

“I believe you tried your hardest,” I said, cutting him off, “but you did not play your best. You were playing with hesitation.”

His eyes flared with anger. “You only watched one game, how can you—”

“Don’t argue,” I snapped, making him close his mouth. “Were you nervous?”

His face fell. “Well, yeah, but—”

“It showed.” If no one else was going to tell him the truth, I would.

“They wanted you for the player you were back at Centre Ice, but when you showed up in Hamilton, you changed your playing style. You were known for blowing up guys in the corners—I should know, because it always scared me. But at the game I went to, you didn’t throw a single check.

And you never once fought for the puck on your own.

When you were finally thrown a pass, you just dumped it. What was that, Richard?”

“That’s fucking harsh, Piper,” he said, glaring at me. “Fine, I get it, I suck. Why should I—”

I rolled my eyes. “You don’t suck , you just didn’t show them the real you.”

He shook his head. “What can I say? I fucked up. There’s no going back, so just drop it.”

“No, there isn’t,” I agreed. “You need to move forward. This isn’t over, not yet. You still have a chance to come back from this.”

He rolled his lips together. “You don’t need to lie just to make me feel better.”

A humorless laugh flew out of me. “If I was going to lie, would I have said all that to you?”

He ran his tongue over his teeth.

“You need to improve and be even better than you were back at Centre Ice.”

“How?” he whispered. His eyes darted to mine, like he was afraid to ask, but inside, I was practically collapsing with relief. That one word, that one question, showed that he still had a little fight in him. I could work with that.

“You need to think like a figure skater. Quicker feet, but slow your mind down. Two different speeds. You can’t get all riled up and just dump the puck in panic. You need to slow your mind down and think through what you’re doing. Take that one extra split second.”

His gaze dropped to the ice.

“Okay?” I pushed.

“Yeah.” His throat bobbed with a swallow. “I’m sorry for…” he trailed off and eyed me nervously.

“For cutting me out and ignoring me for months?”

His eyes fell to the ice and his cheeks pinked up a little. I already forgave him, but he didn’t need to know that. Not yet, anyway.

I cleared my throat. “We can switch who controls the aux cord every other day. Now, get moving.” I skated away before he could say anything else.

But it seemed like that little talk lit a fire under his butt because he finally started skating with some effort.

I tried to focus on working on my own footwork, but I kept glancing up at him to watch his progress.

After about twenty minutes of skating hard, he skated directly at the boards. His upper body tipped over the bench and the sound of heaving filled the air.

I couldn’t help but laugh a little. “Serves you right for poisoning your body!”

His only response was to lift his hand and flip me off as his body continued purging last night’s poison.

_________

Tuesday morning, he was at the Barn before me, casually leaning against the doors with a hat slung backward over his hair, holding his stick and skates.

“Good morning,” I clipped.

A grin slid on his face. “G’Morning, Viper,” he drawled, and his deep voice made my heart waver in my chest. “Still mad at me?”

I stuck my chin up. “I’m always mad.”

He hung his head while I unlocked the door and pushed it open for us.

But that morning, he controlled the aux cord.

I expected him to play one of his favorite bands, either Linkin Park or All-American Rejects.

I was shocked when Jason Mraz’s voice crooned over the speakers, singing “I Won’t Give Up.

” During the song’s chorus, I looked over at him and he was eyeing me like a kicked puppy.

I almost laughed out loud in his face, but I could not break. He wasn’t done groveling yet.

The next morning, I started the session skating around to “Like a Boy” by Ciara.

“Really?” he burst out, pointing his stick at the music box. “I didn’t play you , I played me .”

I just shrugged.

He turned his back on me to work on some shots, but he didn’t hit the net a single time while the song played. I silently snickered the whole time.

The next day, John Mayer’s voice sang “My Stupid Mouth” through the speakers.

On Friday, when I played “U + Ur Hand,” he finally broke.

“That’s it!” He burst out. He dropped his stick and gloves and came gliding toward me, stopping on the red line.

“I’m sorry, okay?” He faced me with earnest eyes.

“Please forgive me. I was cut from the team and licking my wounds like a little crybaby, I know that now, okay?” His shoulders dropped. “Please forgive me, Piper.”

My hands went to my hips. I eyed him up and down, and I couldn’t stop my smirk. While I hated that he had any sort of power over me, I had to admit that it was nice knowing I had some power over him, too. “Fine, whatever.”

His eyebrows slammed down. “Wait, really?” he stammered out. “Just like that?”

“I forgave you a while ago.” I waved him off. “I was just having fun with the songs.”

He blanched at me.

“I wanted to see what else you’d come up with,” I said with a shrug.

His jaw set. Shaking his head, he skated forward.

“No!” I yelled and pointed at the red line. “You know the rules. Don’t you dare cross that line!”

“Oh, I’m crossing it!” he yelled back.

“Richard, no!” I barked at him like a dog while skating backwards.

With a wicked grin on his face, he picked up speed, skating right at me. He barreled into me, scooping me up off my skates for a hug.

“Put me down.” I struggled against him.

“Please let me have this hug,” he begged. “I’m touch-starved, baby.”

Rolling my eyes, I conceded and petted him awkwardly.