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CHAPTER THREE

paige

My history with Nathan Ford could fill a college textbook. It’s long and tedious, dragging on for multiple decades, with a lot of footnotes and annotations in the margins.

But the concise breakdown is: We’ve known each other since we were nine and ten, respectively, when he joined Charmed Athletics. Started skating together at twelve and thirteen. Went to our first Olympics at eighteen and nineteen, and then won our first gold medals at twenty-two and twenty-three.

Throw in a bunch of championship titles, record-breaking scores, and whatever other accomplishments that were able to be achieved, we did it. We’ve done it all. Together.

Now at twenty-four and twenty-five, we are nothing but rivals trying to outdo one another at the competitions we used to win together. Him being much more successful at it than me.

It infuriates me to know that he’s doing better than ever while I’m at a precipice in my career I didn’t think I’d see this early.

I don’t know why Nate ended our ten-year skating career together just weeks after we won our gold medals, but I know it wasn’t because he wanted to stop skating.

My devastated tears hadn’t even started to dry when I found out he was going to be skating with Stassi after her partner (and husband), Ivan, sustained a career-ending injury.

I think that betrayal cuts the deepest. Knowing Nate didn’t stop skating with me because he had to, but because he chose to.

I just can’t wrap my head around it, even now. And maybe if I could, I’d be able to figure out why I lost another partner. Why I’ve seemed to have lost my love and passion and desire for skating altogether.

The only problem is finding out that answer involves talking to Nathan Ford himself—something I’m never apt to do these days.

Unless it’s to verbally spar with him like I did in the lobby yesterday.

Can’t deny it didn’t feel good, either. I walked away buzzing with this adrenaline that I only ever feel after I go toe to toe with him. Maybe that’s a little unhealthy, but I promise it’s not the most messed up thing about me.

It’s just the thing I focus on as I skate around the resort’s ice rink this blistering winter morning, wondering if the universe is trying to make me sort out all my problems before the year is up.

Is this what people refer to when they say they get visited by the ghosts of Christmas past? Because if so, I don’t like it and would very much like a refund on this trip down memory lane. Thank you in advance.

I don’t want to think about Nate right now. I don’t want to think about my problems.

I just want to skate before the jam-packed day of fun Kylie has scheduled for us begins. A schedule that has me very concerned with something she has labeled Dirty Dick’s.

But our day, according to Kylie, isn’t set to start until eight this morning, which is more rational than the time I carefully dragged myself out of the bed I’m sharing with my best friend —further cementing the notion that I stole a romantic holiday getaway from her—at a crisp four-thirty in the morning.

Which isn’t as bad as it sounds when you remember the three-hour time difference between the East and West coasts. So, technically, I slept in. Well, if we’re getting technical, I’d been up since four in the morning New York time, but didn’t allow myself to get out of bed until after four West coast time.

I am on vacation, after all.

Even if I seem to be doing it wrong.

But skating is a part of my daily routine. If I don’t start my day off with it, I get antsy and moody and downright unpleasant to be around. Trust me when I say no one wants to be around me when I get in one of those moods.

So here I am, gliding around a closed rink, with only my warm-up playlist, the glorious mountains, and a vibrantly lit Christmas tree keeping me company.

Jesus Christ, how many trees does a place need? We get it. It’s cold. It’s Christmas. No need to assault us with it.

Or, rather, I guess—me.

Bah humbug.

I try not to focus on the tree, or the holiday that is only a few days away, or my troubles, or a particular person lurking somewhere here in town. I only focus on my legs as they swish across the ice, carrying me around like I’m searching for purpose.

And really, I kind of am.

The only time life has ever made sense is when I’m on the ice. It’s been my solace, my savior, my lifeline ever since my brother gifted me my first pair of skates at three years old.

He played hockey and would always bring me to his practices, the moms of his teammates keeping me entertained because our own mother never bothered to show up.

Her and our dad were usually off to some international destination, leaving their two underage kids in the care of their senile, apartment-bound neighbor, who used to mistake me for her cat half the time.

So it became easier for Austin to just bring me, and the moms were always happy to have a little girl to fawn over in a sea of sweaty, smelly boys. They’d even bring me dresses and pink coats and stuffed animals to keep me entertained.

After practice was over, Austin would lace up my little skates and take me out on the Zamboni-polished ice to burn off any excess energy before we headed back to our dreary apartment.

It didn’t take me long to find the confidence to do more than just skate in a line. Even from a young age, I loved how free I felt, how in control I was. It made me want to chase that feeling each and every time I laced up my skates.

I started to feel bold, to have a confidence my shy, introverted self had never felt before. With a brother who was more than willing to give me the world.

Austin would twirl and toss and spin me around, leaving me in a fit of giggles every time. All the problems my little body wasn’t aware of but always carried would disappear.

I haven’t laughed on the ice in a really long time. Haven’t felt the joy or confidence or desire in even longer.

Just all muscle memory and discipline for me right now, where I’m skating more out of habit than for pleasure.

Still, every day I get back on the ice hoping today will be the day the spark I’ve been starving to taste again returns.

And every day, I leave disappointed. But maybe not this time.

New environments can inspire new outcomes. At least, that’s what I’m telling myself as I skate around, with nothing but the Christmas lights strung above me to light my path thanks to the absurdly early hour.

The rink technically isn’t even open yet. The official time is a respectful eight or nine in the morning for the people that actually know how to enjoy their vacation, but I was able to get special permission from one of the higher-ups at the resort. Hadley, I think her name was. She had a shade of hair similar to mine and a friendly smile.

Sometimes being an Olympian has its perks, like landing me special ice time. But it’s a perk I rarely acknowledge, let alone take advantage of.

Not when the title holds such a tarnished memory for me.

I don’t even have the iconic rings tattooed on me, and my gold medal…

That precious gold medal I used to dream about when my body felt like giving up, the very thing I sacrificed so much of my life for, losing pieces of myself along the way—pieces I’ve never been able to find again—now sits in a box, collecting dust in the back of what New York real estate calls a closet.

Untouched and forgotten.

Tainted.

A memory that haunts me even now as I’m trying not to think about how fucking cold it is.

It’s even chillier this morning than when I arrived yesterday, my breath a curtain of fog before me, as I fight to keep my teeth from chattering and my legs moving. The black leggings, gray leg warmers, white athletic long sleeve top with holes for my thumbs, and black sweater I’m wearing aren’t really cutting it right now.

But anything else would be too constricting or too hot the longer I skated. I’ll be fine in a bit. It’s mind over matter more than anything. So I’m going to pretend I don’t mind until it doesn’t matter.

I hope.

I loop around the rink a couple more times, just to make sure my body is loose and feeling good, before I pick up speed.

My gliding becomes faster, kicking up the ends of my high ponytail, as I leap from the ice, and spin around and around and around, before landing on one leg, my other extended behind me, parallel to the ice.

Wrong.

I don’t need Vytas here to tell me how ugly that looked. I can feel it. It’s not even a hard jump, but like so many things, I’m struggling to connect with the movement right now.

With gritted teeth, I try again, and again, the music from my headphones now a forgotten sound, despite the songs that keep playing. I barely hear the lyrics over my frustration.

I set up for the jump again, sliding my skates across the ice with enough speed to get into the air when I hear it.

A snap of some kind. Like a door closing in the distance, or a fallen stick snapping.

I’m not sure what exactly, just that my quiet, almost sleeping surroundings suddenly have a visitor.

I falter, looking around. A sense of apprehension claws at my chest, realizing for the first time since I came out here that skating alone this early in the morning might not have been the smartest idea.

What kind of animals does Canada have again? Bears? Cougars? Moose? Are moose friendly?

Something tells me no as my stomach drops. Not even wanting to entertain what else it could be.

I take a deep breath. The sharp winter air is enough to stun my paranoia. Pausing my music, I hear nothing. Not even the howl of the temperate wind.

I’m just being paranoid. Still, I do one more scan around.

Not seeing anything, I decide I’m just making something out of nothing and go back to my jump.

This time when I land, I almost trip.

I catch myself at the last second, throwing my body at the closet board to keep myself from eating shit.

“Gaaaah!” Fingers wrapped around the ledge, I struggle to catch my breath, my irritation growing. “What am I doing wrong?”

It’s a question I don’t expect an answer to.

So imagine the heart attack I have when a voice behind me says, “You’re wrapping your triple toe.”

I jump, feeling my heart kick up in a frantic frenzy. But the shock quickly wears off as the familiar deep, highly amused voice sinks in.

My head wipes around with a glare, one that could melt the ice from this rink, already knowing who is going to be on the receiving end of its wrath.

Unbothered by the hatred and annoyance pouring out of my eyes, Nate stands just outside the rink, looking as bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as a kid on Christmas morning, never mind the holiday is still a handful of days away. He holds up two paper to-go cups, wearing that shit-eating half-smile that drives me wild. “Princess. Fancy running into you here.”

Nathan Ford has never been good at knowing when he isn’t wanted. It’s like he sees a hostile environment and thinks, Huh , that looks like fun, let’s go there.

Someone should talk to him about his self-preservation skills because I am not feeling particularly friendly toward him at this moment. Or any moment, really.

And I am technically sporting two weapons on my feet.

You look horrible in orange, a small, sane voice in the back of my head reminds me as I glower at my rival, who doesn’t look particularly worried.

“What are the chances?” he asks, while I’m still staring at him, frozen not from the cold but indignation.

Dressed in black athletic joggers, a slate gray long sleeve that peeks through the collar of his black Charmed Athletic hoodie, and a beanie with the Sugar Peak Resort logo stitched across the front, Nate looks relaxed and effortlessly cool. Maybe even a little badass as I spot his double pierced ears in the soft light.

It’s annoying.

“Hmm. I don’t know, Nate. Maybe you could tell me. What are you doing here?”

He’s never been an early riser if he doesn’t have to be. The amount of times I had to bribe him with the breakfast of his choosing, no cash limit, just to get him to show up for an earlier practice is impossible to count.

And he never looked as peppy and vibrant as he does now. I eye his two cups of coffee warily.

He sips from one. “Oh, you know, just in the neighborhood.”

“At five-something in the morning?” My brows raise in skepticism.

“Technically, it’s eight-something in the morning back home.” He makes an arch with the coffees in front of him. “The magic of time differences.”

“And you just thought a walk in the dark on resort property was what you needed to start your day?”

Kylie tried to rationalize with me at dinner that Nate isn’t staying at the resort. Since he’s from here, he’s got to have his own place and was only checking out the resort like other locals since it’s finally open.

Apparently, this place used to be the town’s heartbeat back in the day.

But to Kylie’s argument, I say clearly not.

There is no way he isn’t staying here and showing up this early in the morning, time difference or not.

And that just irritates me further. If he’s from here, why can’t he stay somewhere else? You know, somewhere I am not.

Nate, oblivious to my inner plight, takes a deep inhale, his broad, muscular chest puffing up as he does. “There’s nothing like the crisp mountain air to get yourself going in the morning.”

My glower only deepens. The man can never be serious.

“I’m sure double-fisting coffee helps.”

“Oh,” he says like he remembers he’s holding them in the first place. “This one is for you.”

“Looks like I’m not the only forgetful person here.” I skate closer to him, only because my throat is getting scratchy from keeping my voice raised, thanks to us being on opposite ends of the rink. “I don’t drink coffee.”

“I know.” He turns one cup toward me as I near, showing HOT CHOC scribbled in quick, almost illegible letters.

Damn him.

The gesture would be sweet if it came from anyone else but him, and didn’t instantly make me feel like crap.

“For the record, I didn’t forget you lived here,” I tell him instead of reaching for the cup. Even though my cold, practically frozen fingers beg to.

The guilt has been eating at me since our interaction yesterday, and I hate feeling any kind of sympathy or remorse for this man. I remembered him talking about his hometown right before he said it. That little wiggle in the back of my brain finally sprang free. Only, it happened at the worst possible time, making me look and feel like the most self-centered wretch.

“Sure.” He takes a sip of what I believe to be actual coffee, extending the one labeled hot chocolate toward me.

“I did,” I argue, planting my hands on my slightly bony hips instead. Still not reaching for the cup

Nate lowers his. “I believe you.”

Then why do I feel like he’s just placating me?

Suddenly, I feel the need to prove it to him. If only so I don’t look like the jerk in this scenario. “I remember you telling me stories about you skating on a lake here, and how your dad would always take you to the candy shop because you wanted to bring me back some kind of sweet.”

Does it count in remembering if it has to do with something about me? Does that only emphasize my selfishness?

“Paige,” Nate starts, and I startle. He rarely ever uses my real name. I’ve always been princess or sometimes sweetheart, when he’s feeling particularly patronizing, so it feels wrong to hear my actual name coming from him. Like I’ve actually done something wrong. As much as I hate his nicknames, I’d prefer either one of them now, to keep me from feeling about two feet tall. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Nate I—” I start to apologize, then stop. A new wave of anger washes over me. “You don’t get to make me feel bad about this.”

“I’m not.” His brows scrunch together.

“I’ve had a lot going on, is all. Any other time, I wouldn’t even be here. Invading your turf and whatnot. I just needed to get away after everything that happened, and Kylie got invited to come.” Why am I telling him this? The last person I want to know about what happened back at our beloved athletic club is Nate, even in the vaguest terms. At least, not when I can see his face. “It shouldn’t surprise you that someone as selfish as me would invite herself on another person’s vacation, but I wasn’t thinking clearly. If I had been, I would’ve remembered.”

“I know,” he says slowly. Cautiously. “I heard about Cole.”

“And it’s not even like you always talked about this place by name. You’d always just call it home— Wait, what did you say?” My heart kicks up, thumping heavily in my chest.

No, no—please, please, please let there actually be something wrong with my ears this time. I don’t even care what. I’ll take anything. As long as it means Nate didn’t just say what I think he did.

Nate doesn’t answer me, further amplifying my paranoid panic waging inside me. Not that he cares, he’s just continuing on like a bomb hasn’t been dropped. “Will you take this drink already? I need to put on my skates.”

Only because I’m still stunned by him mentioning Cole do I numbly reach out and take it. Barely noticing how my fingers practically sing as they wrap around the warm cup.

I’m too focused on Nate.

He places his drink on the board between us before dropping his shoulder. The tied-together laces of his skates that I didn’t notice before fall off, and he drops down to put them on.

I don’t even think I fully compute what he’s doing because my mind is still reeling.

I heard about Cole.

What did he hear about Cole, exactly?

My recently former partner is a lot of things. Very little of them kind, and if there is one person he hates more than me, it’s Nate. But even sharing that commonality wasn’t enough to keep our partnership.

It definitely didn’t make us skate better, despite the ire churning between us. But it did make the end of our relationship cataclysmic.

Worse than when Nate broke things off with me—probably because I was more hurt than fuming with him. Devastated and betrayed.

I’ve never been in a relationship. They’ve always felt more like a headache to me than anything else. My dedication to skating has always been my number one priority and it’s never felt fair to get involved with someone who I couldn’t give ample attention to. Or someone who would expect more than I could give them.

So I don’t know what it’s like to go through a romantic breakup, but the anguish from a pair’s partner has to be similar. We spend every day, countless hours together, all up in each other’s personal space. We are touching and grabbing each other without qualms, moving our bodies in intimate ways.

There’s a mourning process involved, but I’ve waited. And waited, for the aches and tears and the bone-shattering agony that Nate left in his wake to hit for Cole.

Instead, all I feel is relief that I don't have to see him again.

And dread because I’m a pairs skater without a partner, left wondering what my future holds now.

A low grinding sound pulls me out of my thoughts, just in time to see Nate soar across the ice, moving with a speed that steals even my breath. When did he get on the rink?

“What are you doing?” I call after him.

“Skating.” The duh at the end of his sentence is implied.

I grit my teeth. We’re not deflecting this time. He’s going to tell me what he heard. I need to know what people are saying about me.

I take off after him, leaving my hot chocolate next to his coffee.

Nate looks over his shoulder, sees me gaining on him, and grins. Catch me if you can, he practically dares. He takes off even faster, and I let out a low growl.

“Why are you running, Ford?” I call after him. “Afraid of a little girl?”

“Little girls? Definitely. They terrify me.” He spins around, now skating backwards so he’s facing me. “But you? You’re nothing but a kitten without claws.”

We’ll see about that.