Home Ice

Avon, Massachusetts

Copyright © 2015 by Katie Kenyhercz.
All rights reserved.

This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.

Published by

Crimson Romance

an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

Blue Ash, OH 45242. U.S.A.

www.crimsonromance.com

ISBN 10: 1-4405-8411-7

ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-8411-4

eISBN 10: 1-4405-8412-5

eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-8412-1

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

Cover art © 123RF/Nicholas Piccillo, Arina Zaiachin; Shutterstock/Valua Vitaly

This one is for my real life hero, my husband, John. I couldn’t do what I do without his constant love and support. He inspires me every day. I may write love stories for a living, but ours is my favorite.

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Thank you to Helaina Hinson for your figure skating knowledge! You answered all my questions and helped me bring Lori to life. You rock!

• Title Page
  
• Copyright Page
  
• Dedication
  
• Acknowledgments
  
• Chapter One
  
• Chapter Two
  
• Chapter Three
  
• Chapter Four
  
• Chapter Five
  
• Chapter Six
  
• Chapter Seven
  
• Chapter Eight
  
• Chapter Nine
  
• Chapter Ten
  
• Chapter Eleven
  
• Chapter Twelve
  
• Chapter Thirteen
  
• Chapter Fourteen
  
• Chapter Fifteen
  
• Chapter Sixteen
  
• Chapter Seventeen
  
• Chapter Eighteen
  
• Chapter Nineteen
  
• Chapter Twenty
  
• Chapter Twenty-one
  
• Chapter Twenty-two
  
• Chapter Twenty-three
  
• Chapter Twenty-four
  
• Chapter Twenty-five
  
• Chapter Twenty-six
  
• Chapter Twenty-seven
  
• Chapter Twenty-eight
  
• Chapter Twenty-nine
  
• Chapter Thirty
  
• Chapter Thirty-one
  
• Chapter Thirty-two
  
• Chapter Thirty-three
  
• Chapter Thirty-four
  
• Chapter Thirty-five
  
• Chapter Thirty-six
  
• Chapter Thirty-seven
  
• Chapter Thirty-eight
  
• Chapter Thirty-nine
  
• Chapter Forty
  
• Chapter Forty-one
  
• Chapter Forty-two
  
• Chapter Forty-three
  
• Chapter Forty-four
  
• Chapter Forty-five
  
• Chapter Forty-six
  
• More from This Author
  
• Also Available
  

Thursday, September 24th

So many things were just as she remembered. The crisp, clean smell of fresh ice combined with the underlying scents of sweat socks and beer that never completely left the arena no matter how many times it was cleaned. Damn hockey. But even the stench couldn’t disturb the calm and quiet solitude of an empty rink. She could still lace up her skates with her eyes closed. Lorelai Kelly released a slow breath. Nothing had changed, but everything was different. And nobody could know.

She stood on numb legs, squared her shoulders, and kept her face blank. Val, her trainer, sat with his arms folded, high in the seats overlooking center ice. Music played over the loud speakers. It was rap with a gothic, almost monastic background. An edgy choice for someone the figure skating world regarded as an old maid. Twenty-four and ancient. Lori pushed back the tide of anxiety attached to that train of thought, willed her pulse to slow, and focused on the music. The words were indistinguishable, but the beat flowed through her veins. Audio adrenaline.

Stepping into the rink, she took comfort in the familiar glide and quiet scrape of her skates as she acclimated to the recently refreshed ice. The skin of her bare arms prickled in the cold air, and she clamped her teeth together to keep them from chattering. She pushed off and skated at a medium pace, doing figure eights around the hockey playoff circles. A harsh cough from the stands brought back her tension, and she switched directions, heading for the other end.

She moved easily, muscle memory taking over as she turned backward and crossed her left foot over her right, arms out for balance. She started with simple jumps, jumps she could execute perfectly in her sleep. The goal was to get her feet wet again and test-drive her triple axel—the jump she’d been known for. The one that had broken her ankle.

Trying to block out doubt, she cleared her head and wound up for a double axel. Her movement felt fluid and sure as she spun through the air, landing with only a slight wobble on her good ankle. Still, any wobble was enough to make her heart pound.

Sweat beaded at her temples, and warmth flooded her face, but she kept skating. No more coughing from Val, so he hadn’t noticed her hesitancy. She knew what he wanted, and she balled and flexed her hands trying to rein in her nerves. Around the rink she went, building speed and tension. Turning backward, she tried to ignore the whispering reservations.
Don’t think. Just do
.

Crossover, crossover, crossover, hop forward, dig in the toe pick. She took off with fierce speed, counting her rotations. As she came down, the fall flashed in her mind. Half a year and not a detail had faded. She hadn’t seen it coming. Everything felt right, just as she’d practiced. Then she landed on the wrong edge of her blade. The next thing she knew, she was biting back tears as trainers carried her off the ice.

She came back to the present half a second too late. Instead of even trying to land, she allowed her feet to slide out and spun on her hip. Her pulse slowed, but guilt and frustration made her flush. She got up and tried again. And again. And again. All with the same result. A frustrated sigh from the seats made her look up. Val just shook his head and left. Russian coaches were known for their excellence, not their patience. She gritted her teeth and tried again.

• • •

“Good job today.” Dylan Cole’s Russian was dicey, but he must have been close, because his new teammate, Ilya Kaslov, replied with a humble smile and what Dylan recognized as “Thank you.” Dylan clapped Ilya on the back then raised his hand in a wave to the last of the guys in the locker room. Hair still wet from the shower, he shivered as he stepped into the cold air of the rink. The scrape of skates on ice caught his attention, and he looked over to see a girl falling.

Frowning, he slowed and stopped by the glass. She got up, brushed herself off, and skated in the other direction without noticing him. When she rounded the corner, he saw her in profile and raised a brow. Lorelai Kelly. Her picture was plastered around the arena as much as his was. Olympic medalist turned Vegas ice girl.

Some figure skaters were muscular. Lorelai was small and lean, but judging by the determination on her face, in her stride, she could intimidate half of the Sinners NHL team. The top half of her blonde curls were pulled back with a clip. Her skin was almost as white as the ice except for her cheeks, which seemed to be reddened by frustration. And falling.

He winced when she fell for the fifth consecutive time just beyond his spot by the glass. “Doesn’t that hurt?”

Her head snapped up, and she pierced him in place with her light green eyes. Then she got up, wound up, and jumped again. And fell.

“What are you afraid of?” His voice bounced off the high ceiling and echoed through the arena.

As she stood, she paused in brushing the snow from her legs. “Excuse me?”

“That’s why you keep falling. It’s like you’re afraid to land.”

“I’m not
afraid
to land. Landing is the whole point. What do you think I’ve been trying to do?” She was hands on tiny hips, glaring.

Dylan repressed a smile. “I’ve been watching you for the last five minutes. It looks like you’re afraid of falling on accident, so you fall on purpose.”

“That’s ridiculous. I
can
land that jump. It’s what I’m known for. I just need to keep practicing.”

He raised his brows and lifted a shoulder. “Okay.”

Lorelai glared at him a second longer then sighed and turned away, flitting over the ice with grace and fierce purpose. Tinker Bell on a tirade. Dylan shook his head and started down the hallway to the parking garage. As he was going through the door, he heard the familiar scramble of blades looking for purchase on the ice and not finding it. He smiled to himself, kept shaking his head, and left.

Friday, September 25th

Lori woke before her alarm at 4:45 a.m. and turned it off. She never actually needed the thing, but Val insisted on it
just in case
. He’d all but given up on her after yesterday. How hard could it be to find another Olympic coach? Not that it mattered at the moment. Sin City on Ice demanded her full attention. My, how the mighty had fallen. Her stomach soured, so she pushed the thought away and slid out of bed and into her tights and practice outfit. She had to get to the rink early if she wanted those precious, solo training hours before clocking in for show practice.

She could apply for a bye to make the U.S. team, but no way was she settling for the coward’s way out.

She finger-combed the top half of her curls back and secured them with her lucky, amethyst-studded barrette. Not that it had been lucky as of late. The banana and bowl of oatmeal she ate were more for mental preparation than actual physical hunger. Some skaters, like dancers, succumbed to eating disorders—and it was tempting at times—but a body without fuel didn’t perform. Simple as that. She stepped into her fuzzy, warm boots, slung her skates over her shoulder, and headed out.

Her apartment was a short drive from the arena, and traffic was light. She used the passkey around her neck to access the underground entrance reserved for athletes and staff and stared at the double doors at the end of the hall. The fastest way to the ice was through the Sinners’ locker room. Were they there this morning? She tried to keep a mental calendar of their schedule for this exact reason but couldn’t remember. Better safe than sorry. She turned down the corridor to her right and followed it around to the next rink entrance. About ten yards before the opening, she heard shouts. And skates. And sticks.
Damn
.

She sighed through her teeth and trudged ahead but stuck to the shadows. She couldn’t very well demand the ice. The players owned it as much as she did, though she would never admit that to one of
them
. Especially not the arrogant ass from yesterday. Emerging, she stayed close to the stadium seats and folded her arms.

Thoughts of biding her time at the coffee shop across the street evaporated, and the hinge in her jaw loosened. True, these guys were weighted down with bulky pads and oversized jerseys, but they
glided
. She’d thought hockey would be stilted, stop and start. Violent. Crude like the snippets of games she’d caught on TV while flipping channels. But this, she’d never expected.

In this scrimmage, the players flowed around each other like water, their movements fluid. Mesmerizing. One player zipped by the glass closest to her, and the number on his back made her heart hiccup. Cole.
Dylan
Cole. Her fingernails dug into her palms.

Ass
.