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EIGHT

victoria

A t our next practice a few days later, Leo strides onto the ice, wearing joggers and a fitted T-shirt that clings to his chest and arms in a way that feels almost unfair. The man is a walking distraction, and I hate that I notice.

For a moment, I forget that he’s here to annoy me, hiding behind that mask he often wears—the grumpy, growly tough guy with a chip on his shoulder. I know what’s really underneath, even though he pretends there’s nothing to hide. He might be all rough edges and scowls, but behind the facade, he’s like the soft center of a chocolate truffle, gooey and sweet.

“You ready to get started?” he asks, catching me mid-stare as he skates backward on the ice.

I snap my eyes away. “Of course.”

Pull it together before he notices you’re staring... or worse, drooling like a St. Bernard. I turn away and discreetly swipe at the corner of my mouth, just in case.

One deep breath. Then I whirl back around, ready to work. “Alright, let’s see if you can manage a basic three-turn.”

He’s got confidence and speed, which is impressive—until you realize that hockey players are used to stopping and starting like bullets. Graceful transitions? Not their thing.

Leo smirks, stopping inches from me with a little ice spray. “A three-turn? That’s it? I thought you’d give me a challenge.”

I skate in a slow figure eight, looping around him. “You mean like not tripping over your own feet? Because I was getting to that.”

His grin widens, and for a split second, I forget why I’m keeping my distance. Then I remember: this is Leo Anderson—the guy who made me believe in fairy tales back in college. And now? He’s just my temporary skating partner. That’s all. The ridiculously handsome, grown-up version of the boy who always knew how to hold my attention—like every part of me was drawn to his every move.

I clear my throat, pushing the memory aside. “Watch closely,” I say, demonstrating the turn with ease. My left skate carves a graceful curve in the ice, my arms balanced as I rotate smoothly onto the opposite edge. “It’s all about control—shifting your weight, staying on the correct edge, and controlling the rotation.”

He nods, watching me with an intensity that makes my stomach flip. His mouth slowly hitches up on one side. Why does he have to look at me like that—like he’s enjoying taking me in from head to toe?

“Got it,” he says, getting into position. I catch the way his biceps flex under his fitted shirt, and for a moment, my brain blanks. Nope. Not going to go there.

“Alright, your turn,” I say, stepping back to give him space. “I know you can skate. But I want to see you do it gracefully.”

Leo lifts an eyebrow before pushing off and attempting the turn. He has to slow down his speed, and his skate catches at the wrong angle, causing him to teeter. He barely manages the turn before he finds his balance. He reminds me of the kids I teach on Saturdays—the only difference is that I know he’ll nail it on his second try.

“Okay, that was...” I pause, searching for an honest answer. “Not great.”

“Not great?” he echoes, skating back toward me. “You’re supposed to be my coach, not my heckler.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m your coach and your heckler. Welcome to figure skating boot camp.”

He puts his hands on his hips. “Alright, teach. Show me how to nail it.”

For some reason, the challenge in his tone gets to me. He’s taking this seriously—and I can’t decide if that’s good or dangerous.

“Fine. Let’s try it together,” I say, moving closer. “We’ll go in unison. Watch my lead, match my timing, and for the love, don’t trip me .”

“Got it,” he says.

I extend my hand for balance, and he takes it, his grip warm and solid, his body brushing against mine. The air between us heats despite the cold of the rink, and I can’t ignore the way my pulse races under his touch.

“On three,” I say. “One, two, three.”

We push off together, and for a moment, it works. Our blades sync in unison, and it feels almost too natural. But right at the turn, Leo’s timing falters. His skate clips mine, and before I can catch myself, my feet slip out from under me.

“Victoria—” he warns, but it’s too late.

I hit the ice with a gasp, the cold numbing my body as I lie there, momentarily stunned. My hands throb from trying to blunt the fall, but I’m okay—except for my pride.

“Are you okay?” Leo kneels beside me, his face full of concern. He reaches out a hand to help me off the ice, but I shake my head, knowing it’s just going to confuse my feelings for him more.

I wince as I sit up. “I told you not to trip me!”

His mouth twitches, like he’s trying not to laugh. “Technically, you tripped yourself. I was just... involved.”

“Involved?” I glare at him. “I may have overestimated your ability to avoid doing what I asked you not to.”

He lets out the laugh he’s been trying to hold in. “You’re kind of cute when you’re mad, you know that?”

I groan, covering my face with my hands. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” he says softly.

My heart stumbles because I know Leo’s right. I could never hate him.

“Come on, get up. I’ll do better next time,” he promises with a grin.

Reluctantly, I take his hand, letting him pull me to my feet. As I brush off my leggings, I catch him watching me, a half-smile on his lips.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing,” he says, skating backward. “Just thinking I might be better at this figure skating thing than I thought.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Ego,” I say, skating back to center ice. “You’ve got a long way to go.”

Leo offers his hand to try the turn again. When I reach for it, his eyes narrow, and his hand snaps out, catching my wrist. “Victoria, you’re bleeding.”

I follow his gaze to a thin trickle of red running down my palm where I must have scraped it on the ice. It stings now that I’ve noticed it, but I shrug, brushing it off. “It’s nothing. Just a little scratch.”

He frowns, unconvinced. “That’s not ‘nothing.’ We need to get that cleaned up.”

“I’m fine,” I argue, waving him off. “Let’s just keep practicing.”

“Fine, huh?” He arches an eyebrow, pointing at the blood. “Because last I checked, people who are fine don’t leave a trail of blood across the ice like they’re in a horror movie.”

“I’ve practiced before with way worse injuries,” I insist. “I don’t need to stop. Let’s go again.”

He sighs, shaking his head like I’m a stubborn child. “You’re unbelievable.” Then, without another word, he bends down, scoops me up in his arms like I weigh nothing, and starts skating toward the exit.

“Leo!” I shriek, wriggling against his chest. “Put me down! I’m not a damsel in distress.”

“That’s because you’d rather die than admit you need help,” he mutters, carrying me off the ice. “You’re bleeding all over the place and still trying to argue with me.”

I grin. “That’s because I like to argue with you.”

He lifts an eyebrow as he sets me on the bench. “Is that your excuse?” He puts on his skate guards before scooping me up again.

“I can walk, you know,” I tell him.

“Yeah, but you won’t stop skating. And this is the only way I can get you to cooperate.” He pushes open the door to the athletic training room and sets me gently on a table before pulling a first aid kit from the cabinet. “Now that we’re here, sit tight, Grandma.”

I glare at him. “Call me that again, and I’ll trip you for real next time.”

He smirks, but doesn’t respond. Instead, he grabs a washcloth and a bandage. “Give me your hand.”

“I’ll do it,” I say, reaching for the bandage, but he hides it behind his back.

“No you won’t. Now give me your hand, Vic.” There’s no room for argument in his voice.

I sigh, then reluctantly hold it out. He turns my hand over and examines the cut, then wets the cloth and dabs at my palm. I wince, but he won’t let me pull away, like he’s determined to fix me up because he knows I won’t take care of myself otherwise.

“Does it hurt?” he asks, his eyes cutting to mine before he looks back at my wound.

“Only when you touch it,” I mutter, watching as he carefully cleans the wound.

“Well, lucky for you, I’ve got a magic cure for that,” he says, putting the bandage on next.

I snort. “What, are you going to give it a kiss?”

“Exactly,” he says. Then he leans down and presses his lips to the bandage.

My heart stutters in my chest.

His eyes flick to mine. “All better now.”

I gape at him. “Are you serious?”

He straightens up, grinning. “What? You’ve never heard of the kiss-it-and-make-it-better method? Works every time with the kindergarteners at school.”

I roll my eyes, but I can’t stop the corner of my mouth from curving into a half-smile. Honestly, I’d pay good money to see Leo read to a bunch of adorable kids, but I also know my heart might not recover from it. “It might work for them, but I’m not five.”

“Nope, it still works,” he says, giving my hand a gentle pat. “There. Good as new.”

His hand lingers on mine for a second too long, and when I glance up, his blue eyes are locked on mine. For a moment, my smile fades and my eyes drop to his lips. Suddenly, I wish the kiss he gave me wasn’t on my wrist.

He notices me staring, and his mouth quirks just a little.

My gaze falls to the floor as my cheeks flare with heat.

Shoot. He wasn’t supposed to see that.

“Thank you,” I say, swallowing my embarrassment.

“Anytime,” he replies softly, his thumb brushing against my knuckles before he lets go.

I clear my throat, breaking the spell. “Alright, Dr. Anderson. Can we get back to practice now so we can try the turn again?”

He steps back and crosses his arms. “Sure. But next time, if you want to undress me with your eyes, maybe don’t make it so obvious.” Then he gives me a knowing smirk.

I roll my eyes. “Oh, wow, I get it now. I didn’t realize your ego needed a confidence boost.”

He chuckles, unbothered. “I’ll settle for you admitting I’m right.”

“In your dreams,” I say, hopping off the table. That’s when I remember I’m still wearing my skates and can’t walk back to the rink.

His gaze drops to my feet, and his grin widens. “Guess I’ll have to take you back myself.”

“Leo . . .” I warn, shaking my head.

Before I can stop him, he scoops me into his arms and carries me to the rink.

This time, I don’t protest.