Bitter Edge : A Hero Club Novel Read online

  The difference in air temperature, once inside, hits me instantly. It’s like a sledgehammer to my lungs. I haven’t been in a rink in so long I’d forgotten. My arms wrap tight around the clothing bag as the chill bumps ride up my arms and legs to my core. It takes a minute, but I settle in. I do love this smell. Some would say, how could you? It takes someone who’s spent a lifetime in a rink to appreciate it. It’s the smell of the cold, the refrigeration system, the aroma of old concessions, the random insides of hockey bags, along with the rubber we have to walk on to protect our blades.

  Asshole. This is what he was counting on. Get me near the ice and it will be easy. He should know better than anyone that it’s not easy. None of this is. The air pressure change behind me is enough for me to know Spencer’s opened the door and is finally coming in. I find the locker room without saying a word to him or letting him see my face.

  This bag has every material trigger in it. It has my footed and over the boot tights. It has my favorite worn in all the right places fleece-lined skating pants. My long sleeve royal blue ‘Just Do It’ tee shirt with the holes for my thumbs at the end. He even found the gel wraps for my ankles and my Team USA warm-up jacket for extra measure. Dammit.

  I’m going to kill Coach B for this too. His fingerprints are all over this mess too. He would be the only one who knew which practice outfit would be the easiest for me and what was my go-to. Spencer is not a figure skating coach. How does he think this is going to work? It won’t. I know it.

  In that same breath, I look in the mirror and it’s like I never left. I look the same. Almost the same. I know I’m way darker and more twisty inside, versus letting that be what I show on the ice. I’m on minute nine of ten before I decide to leave the locker room. I pack my shorts and top into the now empty bag and go back out to the lobby. He’s not there with his stopwatch like I thought he’d be.

  He’s beyond the glass in the arena. There is a smaller gray, round picnic-style table. He’s got his gear all laid out before him. My skates are lying perfectly on their sides to his right and a bit behind him. His skates are all done up and he’s waiting with his head bowed down. His elbows are on his knees and his hands are folded just under his chin. He looks like he’s praying.

  I didn’t think about what being on the ice would mean to and for him. Like I’ve often been told, I’m very good at thinking about me. I’ve never seen him on the ice. Obviously, I know he’s good. He was in the NHL. I think it’s more about being hit with the reality that no one understands what I’m facing or what he’s faced but each other.

  I quietly open the door and walk to Spencer and my skates. I sit down behind him with my skates in front of me. I can hear my heart pounding in my ears. I haven’t had them on since the day Coach had to take them off for me. They’re still unlaced, frozen the way they were that day. The new addition is the score in the left boot where my other blade sliced it as I crashed out of the triple.

  My penguin character soft guards are covering the blades. I see a flash of blue over Spencer’s shoulder. “Need these, right?”

  The blue plastic of my hard guards finally registers, and I take them from his hand. “Yeah. Thanks.”

  His head finally comes up a little. “You have no idea how bad I want to get out there. Leaving me with an empty sheet where I can carve out the first strokes. It’s like handing a match to a pyromaniac. It’s taking everything I have to sit here.”

  “Then why are you? Go.”

  “No. The first carving is going to be done by you. I’m not going out until after you’ve broken the plane.”

  “That’s silly.”

  “Is it? You used to have that feeling. I know you did. I want you to see your strokes. Know that they only belong to you. That sheet will be marked by you and only you first. Each push and glide, each change of edge. I want you to see everything. I want you to have a visual on what you’ve accomplished.”

  I reluctantly slide my right foot into its boot and mold the tongue around the front and begin tugging on the laces. Each set of loops pulls tighter than the next until the over under of the hooks with the bow for the finale. My tights hide the laces, creating a long line for my leg.

  The left goes equal to the right. The whole time I’m lacing, Spencer doesn’t move. He’s back to his praying position. Is he actually praying? For me? For himself? The spring bounces back as I slide my last hard guard into place. He’s counted them off. One. Two.

  With the second, his head rises. “Here, you might need this.” In my hand is a padded knee guard. “It’s lightweight and goes on the outside. Think of it like bubble wrap and strap it around. Also, these.” He hands me a pair of fleece-lined black gloves with leopard print around the cuff. “I want you to look at the animal print when you feel like you don’t want this. Remember the predator in you. She is the competitor.”

  “They look like they’re for a little girl.”

  He ignores my statement and rises. He bends at the knees a couple times to check his laces. Many things with skating are done by feel. It begins in the boots. Too tight won’t work, too loose could lead to bad things. That ever-elusive sweet spot is what you need every time. He seems to have found his. Have I found mine?

  He shoves his hands in his jacket pockets as he waits for me. I need these two hours over with. If I do as he asks, it will be and we both can move on. I stand up and take my own assessment of too tight, too loose, or sweet spot. I’m pretty sure they’re okay. My feet just feel awkward because they’ve gotten out of the routine. The best way I can describe it is that they feel like sausages trying to burst from their casing. If I give it a bit, that should go away.

  I take my first couple of steps over my blades away from Spencer. I want this whole thing in my rearview once and for all. I walk over and take hold of the railing leading up the ramp to the ice. It’s about twenty feet max but it feels like a mile. The boards door is open to greet me…or taunt me.

  Each step has the little click from the plastic of my guards. When I get to the open door, I hold the corner of the frame, balancing on it and remove first my left guard, then my right. I set them on the wall on the outside of the door to the right. I can do this. I can do this.

  I take that giant leap and step out onto the ice. I take a couple small glides then stop at the back of the goalie crease. I look down to the far end of the Olympic-size sheet. I used to want the rink to be bigger. More real estate meant more room to jump and spin, soar and speed. Now, it seems like this giant mountain to climb.

  I look behind me at the wall beyond the glass when the other end seems too much. There is a row of banners hanging from the ceiling. They list all of Lakewood ICE’s medalists and current competitors. Most of the names I had firsthand knowledge of as rivals, friends, or people I admired. It was the names I didn’t know that bothered me the most.

  These are names who came up and passed me while I’ve been out. For me, the sport stopped when I left it. For everyone else, time and the drive kept on. A wave of some unnamed emotion takes over and I jam my toe pick in the ice. I can sense Spencer watching me from the open door.

  I look up and he’s standing in that open doorway. His arms are over his head along the frame of the door on both sides. He is true to his word and is not getting on. The toes of his skates are on the barrier of the door. It’s how I think he would look in the penalty box. He’s waiting on his time.

  I feel frozen, paralyzed almost. What if I’m too afraid to try anything or my body won’t let me? Even more than that, which is scaring me the most, what if I can still do all the things and want to? As much as I hate to admit it, he’s right. I need to do this. I have to know if I’m truly done or simply a coward.

  “Go on,” he hollers from the boards, his voice echoing in the rafters.

  I don’t have the voice to say I can’t or more to the point, I’m terrified. I know I don’t have to. He knows. I reach my black glove out toward him. I need him to take my hand. I need him to walk me through th
is shit in my head. I simply need him.

  Chapter 30

  Spencer

  She needs to walk this path alone. I’ve said that over and over in my head since we met. I’ve always known that one day we’d end up here in a space like this. What I didn’t count on is how much I care. I wasn’t lying when I said I couldn’t wait to get out there. I mean it. Being on the ice is home. However, she’s becoming home too.

  Knowing I’d have to do this, especially after the last two unexpected days, is killing me. I know this fear. But I also know she has it in her to beat it. She needs to only realize it. Willing her on from the sideline is all I should do for her now, until her hand reaches out to me.

  She may as well have punched into my chest and taken my heart. I can hear advice from my old friend squawking in my ear, ‘Ya cooked prick, go to her!’ I take a couple of quick rips across the ice and slow to a stop at her hand. When I’m close enough she grips my arm with such force, it shocks me.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I can’t do this, Spencer.”

  “Yes. Yes, you can. It’s like breathing for us.”

  “I don’t remember how.”

  “Close your eyes, Cierra. Trust me and close them.” I don’t let go of her hand, but I move my body to position behind her. Her body is shaking like she’s freezing, but I know that’s not it. This fear will cripple her if we don’t get rid of it. I lean in and whisper in her ear, “Remember how this felt last night outside our hotel room door? Felt like we were one, right?”

  “Yeah. It did.”

  “Did you feel safe?”

  “I did.”

  “Then use that image to move us now. I will stay right behind you, giving you the push you need until you’re ready to fly on your own.”

  “I don’t want to fall.”

  “It doesn’t matter if you do fall. Pick yourself up and start again. There’s nobody watching you but me. Set the pace and lead off.”

  “You’re going to get hurt if you stay in hold with me like this.”

  “If I can mix with speedy assholes, who are three times your size every night for three periods, I can skate slowly with you in a dance of sorts. Stop stalling and push off, Cierra.”

  I wrap my right hand at her waist as my left stays with hers. Her fingers tighten and loosen and tighten again. She takes the smallest of strokes and I follow. Her body is so stiff. She’s going to hurt herself if she doesn’t relax soon.

  “Cierra, I know you’re terrified of both success and failure. I fucking get it. Don’t sell yourself short. I want you to be free. You can be free. Allow yourself to feel. Let me watch you.”

  With that, I give her a push and let her go so she’s gliding on her own. I look up to the dark music booth and give the thumbs-up. Within seconds, her short program music floods the arena. It was a dirty trick on my part, but I’m going to play every card I can to help her.

  It’s a song I heard in the Twilight movies ad nauseum with Mari. Edward plays it for Bella. If memory serves, she said it was perfect. I find it perfect for Cierra. It’s soft yet dramatic. It’s sensual without being over the top. It’s her.

  She slows to turn and where I thought I’d see a glare; she’s wiping away tears. She’s beginning to feel. Go with it. Show me something. Anything!

  Her careful glides turn into full strokes. She picks up a bit of speed and winds across the other end of the ice. With a careful turn, she crosses to backward gaining even more strength and power. She’s letting the music in.

  I’ve said I often felt like she moves like a ballerina. She’s showing that to me now. Her arms float and extend from her sides. She’s making calculated side-to-side patterns with her edges. The high notes burst from the pianist as she winds into a sharp turn then rotates the opposite direction. She begins to spin like a top.

  She changes position over and over. First, she looks like she’s making her body into a T, then she looks like she’s sitting and just when I think she’s finished, she rises and bends at her back. Her leg extends behind her and the long crescent curve of her body creating this line is doing so with such passion and ease. God, she’s becoming even more beautiful to me.

  She slowly stops spinning and immediately looks down at the pattern on the ice she left behind. Her smile lets me know that she’s happy with what she did. She faces the long end of the rink as I skate over and hop up on the boards to sit and watch her magic.

  She closes her eyes and sways to the music. Once the music hits a certain spot, she finds her choreography. If there was anything forgotten, I don’t see it. She isn’t jumping but she is soaring. Her face is different. I watched her with the wind on her face for a couple days in the car. The breeze she’s catching from being in here has transformed her.

  Long gone are the eyes with a wall of fight and sadness. Her mocha cheeks have a hint of pink only allowed from the chilled windburn any skater can find in these confines. The music builds to its finale, so does she. Her movements today began with a spin that changed through as many positions as her emotions. This spin is fast, furious, and like the tornado I know she is.

  The music ends as she stops her spin on a dime. Her toe pick is in the ice again, but this time not in anger or fear but triumph. Her eyes are down. I can’t read them. Her shoulders are rising and falling. Her chest is rising and falling. Her hands are clasped across her heart in her end position, but long after the rink has fallen silent, she remains still.

  I have so many thoughts and emotions flying through my head. Is she all right? On a scale of one to ten, how pissed is she at me? Did I break through? Does she remember her love for this?

  After what seems like forever, Cierra looks up for me. She locks eyes with mine. Her hands slowly drop to her sides and her skates uncross. She looks like a soft warrior ready for her next battle.

  I want to move but I don’t know if I should. I need her to set the pace. I take my now backward ball cap off and set it at my side. I run my hand through my hair and wait. Cierra unzips her Team USA jacket and removes it. She loops it over her arm and begins to glide over to me.

  Her face is soft but unexpressive. I cock my head to the left and wait. I follow her movements all the way to my left where the ball cap is. She picks up the cap, sets her jacket down then puts my cap back on top of her jacket. She stands in front of me for a minute before placing her black-gloved hands on my knees.

  “Spencer?”

  “Yeah?” I respond.

  “I want to fly.” She rises up on her toe picks and takes the back of my neck with her right hand, pulling me closer to her. Her lips greet me with a kiss on the cheek.

  “Then do it.” I cup her right cheek with my palm before she floats away.

  She takes off down the ice, past the penalty boxes, and rounds the first corner. She gains even more speed out of the second corner. Cierra changes edges and instantly she’s backward. She sets up and jumps. It’s a simple front takeoff to backward landing, but she did it.

  She ended up doing three in a row. She shakes out her legs afterward and stretches both arms out across her chest, one at a time, before the same process begins again. This time it’s a different entry. She goes in on a left edge, comes out backward on the same left skate and finds two revolutions in the air. I hear some scraping of the toe pick and the word “Shit” from her. I hop off the boards in case she needs me.

  She hears me hop down and immediately puts up her hand holding me off. She needs to be in charge and I’m going to make sure she is. I wrap my hands around the inside of the boards to hold myself in place. Cierra takes a look at the pattern that last jump made and begins to nod. She’s self-coaching. She’s seeing what she didn’t like and is moving forward to fix it. This is the predator I always knew existed within her.

  She breezes by me in the opposite direction, gaining speed again. I think she wants another shot. Cierra sets up in the same manner and launches. Her arms check and balance her out and she lands with a rip of her edge.


  What little I know about the technicalities of figure skating you could hold in a fucking shot glass, but that looked to be about as perfect as you could get. It was powerful, effortless, graceful, and she is as fucking beautiful to me right now as she was in that dress last night.

  With her hands riding on the back of her hips, she skates toward me, punctuating what she did with a hockey stop, snowing my skates over to the top of my boots. “Feeling good?”

  “I don’t know if good is the word.”

  “What is the word, Cierra?”

  “More. I need to try a couple more things.”

  “That doesn’t tell me how you feel.”

  “I don’t want to think right now. If I give words to it, I might stop. Look, I’m going to try my signature triple and then a double of the jump that put me here. Put us here.”

  “Cierra, you don’t have to do everything at once. You got out there. That’s all I wanted for you.”

  “You may have been asshole enough to get me out here but, Broten, I’m here for me right now. I’m going to do it. I will take whatever happens after that.”

  “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “You’ve seen me hurt this whole time. Why is this any different?”

  She would have to ask that question right now. Fuck.

  I’m not ready to give her the real answer. “I’ll be right here, just in case.”

  She nods once and takes off on her blades. I close my eyes and listen to her stroke around the rink. Some would say she’s stalling. I know she’s trying to be sure under her feet. She’s making a deal with the ice. She’s asking for it to be kind to her and let her come to meet it on her terms and not jump up and take her down.

  Her blades have this quiet assurance. The strokes are long and precise. Sometimes you hear them and sometimes you don’t. I’m used to this frantic start and stop. I crave that so deep in my soul, it’s a living breathing being to me. However, in the last fifteen minutes, I’ve come to understand the soul behind the figure skater and why those who love it, really love it.