I glance at him, waiting for an explanation.

“Come on, Randy. You gotta know it’s not gonna end well. It never does.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. Never mind. Forget I said anything. Oh, shit.” He points at the screen. “That was a serious screw up by Cockburn. I think he tries that move every damn game, and it never works.”

I get sucked into the highlights and picking apart the other teams’ mistakes—how they could have managed a breakaway better, who missed what goal, who’s making the best plays—but I don’t forget what Miller said about things ending badly. And it irks me, because it’s true, and I don’t want it to be.Chapter 14Sweet BallsLILYI’d like to say I go to work the next evening and don’t take it out on my girls that I’m missing a hockey game and an opportunity to see Randy. That would be a lie, however. I almost make one of them cry. That’s when I rein in the snap-itude and stop pushing them.

I have the sound booth guy put on some upbeat music, and we freestyle it for the last fifteen minutes of class. They have a training schedule to keep and moves to learn, but sometimes it’s important to skate for pure enjoyment. Also, I’m struggling to focus, knowing I could’ve been at the game that’s now almost over. Even more important is the fact that instead of sleeping in my crappy double I might’ve been able to sleep in a sweet hotel bed with Randy. Or not sleep. At all. And now I have to go home and deal with my mom and work in the morning.

I’m bitchy.

And maybe a little sexually frustrated. Or a lot.

I berate myself for not having a backbone all the way home. I should have pushed harder for the time off. I never take days. Ever. Then I check my messages to see if Randy’s sent me anything. He hasn’t, but Sunny’s sent me fifty pictures of the game. Half of them are blurry. Most of them feature Randy on the ice. They don’t make me feel better.

I’m sure my not being able to come to the game means I’ve shot my chance of ever getting back into his bed, or whatever bed is available. Or bathroom. Guys have short attention spans. I’m sure he’ll be all over some bunny tonight as a result.

I put my phone on airplane mode and hide under the covers. It takes forever to fall asleep, so I roll my marble until I come, then finally pass out.

***

My mood does not improve the next morning. During my bus ride to the rink, I check Randy’s social media like an obsessed stalker. All the pictures are of him with Miller and Alex. No girls except Sunny and Violet. I hate how relieved I am. And jealous. I also hate how preoccupied I am with the fact that Sunny hasn’t messaged me since last night, and I have to work all day today instead of spending it naked with Randy.

Damn it.

There goes my mind.

I spend the next four hours on the ice pretending I love teaching kids how to spin and twirl and be as awesome—if not better—than I was a couple of years ago. Most days I love what I do. Today I’m still bitchy. I wish I wasn’t. The kids can sense my mood like a pack of wolves. I stay on point, though, because last night I wasn’t, and I can’t have two bad days in a row.

By the time I get to my older girls, I’m more focused. Which is good, because they’re all about competition, and they need me to stay on them. At least one girl is destined for the Olympics. She’s got the financial backing to make it, so I push her. It’s hard to watch them sometimes, knowing my lost dream is something they can have and might not want.

I’m in the middle of showing the girls the last of the new routine when they become distracted. I run through the moves, finishing with the toe loop, but they’re not looking at me. Instead they’re focused on the stands.

I stop to see what has them so flustered. My stomach flips. There’s a man who looks distinctly like Randy leaning against the boards. He lifts a hand and waves. My girl parts swoon.

“Oh my God!” one of my girls whisper-shrieks. “Is that Randy Ballistic? From Chicago? Why’s he here?”

“I’ll be right back,” I mutter and skate down the ice toward him.

The girls are freaking out. I guess I am, too, except I’m better at managing myself. At least on the outside. I stop in front of him, a small spray of ice puffing out from under my blade. A grin makes his eyes crinkle. He has a tiny dimple up near his left cheek. I want to press it, like it’s a button that will undress him.

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