Cassie Mint

  Thin Ice

  First published by Black Cherry Publishing 2021

  Copyright © 2021 by Cassie Mint

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Cassie Mint asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  First edition

  ISBN: 978-1-914242-52-6

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

  Find out more at reedsy.com

  Contents

  Keep in touch with Cassie!

  1. Mila

  2. Logan

  3. Mila

  4. Logan

  5. Mila

  6. Logan

  7. Mila

  8. Logan

  Teaser: Cold Wood

  About the Author

  Keep in touch with Cassie!

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  One

  Mila

  My skate traces an arc across the ice, and I raise my leg, arms stretched to the rafters. The rink thunders with the music for our program, but it’s still not enough to drown out the rasp of blades and the murmurs of the people watching in the stands.

  Leap.

  Spin.

  Smile.

  I reach my hand out and—yes, gloved fingers meet mine, a second strong hand gripping my waist. I’m lifted, the world tilting as I’m flipped onto my partner’s shoulder. Round and round he spins, faster and faster, until the ice rink streaks into a blue and white blur.

  The music shifts, and my partner sets me down, grabbing my hand and leading me across the ice. I let him tow me, that smile still fixed on my face even as my brain is mush from all the spinning. I barely have time to figure out which way is up before I’m gripped by the hips, lifted and thrown, my legs crossed and my arms tucked tight, spinning, always freaking spinning—

  I flub it. Land hard on my hip instead of my skate, the impact with the ice knocking the breath from my lungs. Pain radiates through my body, the only source of warmth in this whole frozen rink, and I cry out between my gritted teeth.

  My face is still fixed in that smile.

  It’s probably more of a grimace now, though.

  The music stops. The murmur of the crowd sounds louder now, but it’s just the sudden quiet. They’re not alarmed—they see skaters fall every day. And lately, I fall more than I should, so… no one’s surprised.

  It still freaking sucks, though.

  “Ow. Ow ow ow ow.” I keep it all under my breath; keep my weakness to myself. I tip over to sit on my ass, rubbing at my hip, and stretch my legs out experimentally.

  Nothing broken. Nothing seriously wrong, I don’t think.

  Thank god. We don’t have time for injuries.

  My partner’s skates rasp over the ice, and then Chris is crouched by my side, frowning down at me with concern. He can read every micro-expression on my face—knows as soon as he looks into my eyes that I’m in pain, but I can keep going.

  His shoulders relax an inch.

  Chris is my best friend, my longtime partner, the person I’ve been skating with for the last decade since I was ten years old. I know his flushed cheeks and ruffled red hair better than I know my own reflection. There are no secrets between us, nothing but trust, and when he raises an eyebrow at me…

  I want to poke him. Hard.

  “You suck at this section, Mila.”

  I blow out a breath. “Yeah, no shit. I’ll get it, though.”

  “I know you will.” He takes my hand, tugging me to my feet. The movement sends another rush of pain skittering under my skin, like hot pins and needles exploding across my hip.

  I keep my face blank. It’s no good to show weakness. But Chris squeezes my hand, like he reads it all the same.

  It’s not my partner’s watchful gaze that I need to worry about. He’s not the one who throws me off, who makes me scattered and distracted, flushed under my close-fitting layers.

  I pointedly look away from the stands, shaking out the stiffness and getting ready to go again. Chris chatters by my side, talking about our program, his voice washing over me as my racing heart slows, and all the while on the back of my neck, I can feel it.

  The burning gaze of the man in the stands.

  Coach McKay.

  “Maybe we should change that section—”

  “No. I’ll get it.” I zone back in just in time to set Chris straight. I don’t need the routine to be easier, I need practice. Hours and days and weeks of practice. That’s how we do it—we drill the routines until they’re lodged deep in our brains and muscle memory. Until we could do them in our sleep.

  The hot gaze on my back moves lower. Probes at my hip. I can’t explain it, but I can feel him.

  “Coach isn’t happy,” Chris mutters, scratching his chin and glancing over my shoulder. “We should get going. He’s an asshole when he’s pissed off.”

  Most people are, but Chris has a point. Coach McKay is… forbidding, even in a good mood. When he’s angry, he’s colder than the ice we skate on.

  I nod and cross to my starting position, flexing my fingers and shaking out my arms as I go. My skates rattle over the rough ice, churned up by an hour of practice already, and I finally steal a glance at the stands.

  A small huddle of people sits together, their heads bent over a laptop. Our manager, our choreographer, and the rink supervisor. And standing two rows up, arms crossed over his broad chest, watching us with a dark scowl… is Coach McKay.

  Tall, dark haired, and sinfully handsome. Our coach is tailor-made to make me feel like a fool—and sure enough, I stumble over a gouge in the ice, catching myself at the last second with flushed cheeks.

  The coach’s scowl deepens.

  God, I wish he would smile. Just once. I want to know what that looks like before I die, and besides—maybe if he made me less nervous, I wouldn’t flub so many moves. Wouldn’t hit the ice more than a hockey puck. But Coach McKay has had this effect on me since the day I met him last season, has made me all twisted up and jittery the whole time.

  He must think I’m such an idiot.

  Must think I can barely skate. God.

  I reach my starting spot and come to a halt, arranging my limbs into my opening pose. I swallow, mouth dry, and risk another glance at the stands.

  Coach McKay stares back, and I swear, I can practically see the muscle leaping in his jaw, even from here. I wait, muscles straining, breath puffing in front of my chin, and still he watches. Drags his burning hot gaze down my sore body.

  Heat prickles over my skin. Spreads like a traitorous tide under my layers. I clear my throat and refuse to move an inch, even when an ache pulses low in my belly.

  He’s checking my form. Checking my starting position. He doesn’t—doesn’t mean anything by the way he looks at me; he’s doing his job, and all the rest is in my head. It’s wishful thinking.

  Coach McKay looks at me as an athlete, nothing more. It’s not his fault his gaze makes me so flustered, so warm and tingly and restless.

  His deep voice echoes through the rink: “Again.”

  * * *

  The showers are empty after practice. It’s late, the sky dark outside with moonlight spilling through the high frosted window.

  I hiss as the water hits my sore back, sluicing over my aching muscles.

  “Ow. Jesus. Okay.”

  The cruelest part of practice isn’t the bone-rattling falls or the punishing routines. It isn’t even Coach McKay’s icy scowl. It’s this: the weak spray of a lukewarm shower on my cold, aching body. I’d sell my freaking soul for some real hot water right now.

  At least I’m alone. With no one watching, I can wince all I like as I wash the sweat off, turning under the spray. Out there, I need to be fearless. Calm. Graceful. But in here, where no one’s watching…

  I sniffle, prodding at my hip. “Ow. Holy hell.”

  It’s not the worst fall I’ve ever taken. Not even close. It’s not the worst fall I’ve had this week. But something about the way I landed has bruised deep into the bone, and I’m limping when I slap the shower off, wrap a towel around myself, and hobble back out to the lockers.

  The sight of him stops me in my tracks.

  Coach McKay leans against a bank of lockers, his arms crossed and that constant scowl etched on his face.

  He’s sculpted under those black sweatpants and zip up jacket. He was a great skater, a prime athlete, and he’s kept himself in perfect shape even since retiring from competition years ago. You can’t hide strong arms and toned thighs and a muscled chest like that, not under a few thin layers.

  His face would bowl me over anyway. That square jaw and those piercing, ice blue eyes. Those strong brows and the dark hair curling over his forehead.

  I clutch my towel tighter.

  “Coach.” I shuffle toward my pile of clothes on the bench. “Um, hi.”

  Coach McKay pushes away from the locke rs. “Let me see.”

  A million thoughts scatter through my brain. I blink at him, lips parted, that warmth I always feel around him spreading under my skin—

  “You took quite a spill.” His voice is low. Patient but rough. And his Scottish accent—it haunts my freaking dreams. “Hit the ice hard out there. Let me see your hip, Mila.”

  Oh. Oh.

  Yeah, no, that makes sense. Way more sense than what I thought he meant for a crazy second there. What I hoped he meant.

  Coach McKay didn’t stomp in here and demand to see my body. He wants to check on my growing bruise.

  “It’s not too bad.” I turn as he prowls closer, offering up my hurt hip. The white fluffy towel is covering it still, blocking his inspection, but I don’t pull up the hem.

  I want to see if he’ll do it.

  “I’ll be the judge of that.” Coach McKay stops beside me, only a few inches away. So close I can feel the heat radiating off his body; can smell the mint and pine scent of his skin.

  The coach waits, ice chip eyes flicking up to me, then back down. A muscle tics in his jaw. And when he pinches the hem of my towel between finger and thumb, my toes scrunch in my shower flip flops.

  I didn’t think he’d do it. Didn’t think he’d play along. But the fabric grazes up the side of my hip, and he lifts it slowly, so slowly, careful not to reveal anything else. I wouldn’t mind if he did, but I like this, too. The gentle way he lifts the towel, like he’s unveiling something.

  That something is an ugly freaking bruise.

  It’s only been about an hour, and already it’s blotchy, turning blue. It’s going to be horrible a few days from now, spreading over my whole hip.

  I bite my lip, staring down at the mess on my side.

  I’ve dreamed about Coach McKay seeing my body plenty of times. But in my dreams, I’m not bruised and battered, and he looks at me with hunger, not the clinical look he has now.

  The warm pads of his fingers probe my hip. He took his gloves off while I was in the shower, and now he’s touching me. Skin-on-skin. I let my eyes drift closed, cataloging the sensations, committing everything to memory.

  “Painful?” His thumb kneads deep into my hip, and I hiss.

  “No,” I manage. “It’s not too bad.”

  He chuckles. “Liar.”

  He’s laughing? My eyes shoot open, but any humor in his face is long gone. He’s stoic again, frowning down at my injury, prodding around the edges, trying to feel the extent of it.

  It occurs to me as I stare at Coach McKay’s dimpled chin that this is how I treat my crush on him. I probe the edges of it. Worry it like a bruise. Prod at it constantly, half hoping it will heal and half relishing the sting.

  And every time I injure myself worse, my crush on the coach spreading deeper, I send up a silent prayer that I won’t be crippled for life.

  “Well, doc? Will I live?”

  His mouth quirks at one corner. It’s the closest I’ve seen to a smile from him.

  “You’ll be fine, Mila. Take a hot bath when you get home, and two painkillers if you need. Then stretch it out before bed. Okay?”

  I nod, and my heart twinges as he steps back. The towel drops, falling back into place, and I’m covered again. We’re coach and athlete. Nothing to see here.

  His footsteps echo as he strides out of the changing room.

  I’m not so sure. This wound feels pretty life-altering to me.

  Two

  Logan

  I step onto the ice and push off, drifting into the center of the rink. The stands roll past in my peripheral vision, clustered with bright winter coats, but I don’t really see them. I’m watching my team.

  Mila Fontaine and Chris Hutchins. They’re something special. They could be great.

  As their coach, I should be fucking delighted.

  Instead, I’m so jealous I can hardly see straight.

  Not of the skating. Since retiring seven years ago, I haven’t missed it for a day. Not the cut-throat competitions; not the grueling demands on my body. I’m glad that part of my life is done.

  No, the thing I’m so fucking jealous of is Chris’s hands right now, traveling over Mila’s body. He needs to touch her like that to lift her, I know that, I’m not a goddamn fool, and yet every time I watch them dance together, something ugly twists in my chest.

  She’s mine.

  That’s what the primal voice in my brain keeps saying. Chanting louder and louder in the back of my skull, and it’s harder to ignore each day. With every late night when we’re the last two at the rink, the breeze ruffling her auburn hair as I walk her to her truck; with every quiet conversation in the stands, her soft voice cutting through the noise of the rink… it gets a little harder. Wrenches more to keep away.

  But that’s bullshit. Mila’s too young for me anyway—I’m more than a decade older. Stiff and grumpy and jaded. Never mind that I’m her coach; that she’s off limits. That I’d be an asshole to breach her trust in me.

  Because Chris gets this hungry look in his eyes sometimes when he looks at her. And then I want to put my fist through a wall.

  “Morning, Coach.” The younger man grins at me now, dropping into some nimble footwork. Showing me what he’s been working on. He watches me expectantly, waiting for my feedback, and when he stops, eyebrows raised, I force a nod.

  “Looks better. Focus on your edges today.”

  “Yes, Coach.”

  His mouth flattens into a line as he turns away. I don’t care. I’m not here to soothe anybody’s feelings, and I don’t shower Mila in compliments either.

  She doesn’t expect me to. She’s strong. There’s a steel core hidden inside that perfect body.

  “Anything for me?” Her cheeks are flushed from exertion, her chest heaving under her gray long-sleeved fleece top. They’ve been at this for a while already, warming up together while I caught up with the choreographer. Mila’s tied her toffee-colored hair in a bun at the nape of her neck, and the wisps that have come free, floating around her face—they’re a torment.

  I want to wind one around my knuckle. I want to smooth her hair down with my palms, then cradle her pretty head and press our foreheads together.

  I want to feel her. To share heat; share breaths.

  I want to put my hands all over her tight body, and erase everywhere Chris has ever touched her.

  “The second lift. It’s still awkward.”

  Mila bites her lip but nods. She knows it is. “What should I change?”

  “You’re flinching.” I lower my voice, these next words just for her, then skate a little closer, telling myself it’s okay. It’s allowed. “You’re up there thinking about how badly it would hurt if he dropped you. Right?”

  Mila darts a guilty look at Chris. He’s too far away to hear. “Maybe,” she allows.

  It’s good he can’t hear this. Their partnership is based on trust, and if he knew she was doubting him—it might psych him out. Might make him drop her anyway out of nerves.

  “So you need to think about something else. You need to relax.”

  She snorts, and I stifle a smile. It’s a fair reaction. I’m asking her to relax as they skate at breakneck speeds; as they leap and spin with blades strapped to their feet, risking broken bones each time they fall.

  “Easier said than done,” I murmur. Because I remember my own skating partners telling me how scary it was learning a new lift. I remember the way they held their breath sometimes, eyes half-closed in silent prayer, and the way my throat would close when I felt them wobbling above me.

  I never injured anyone. Not—not badly, not beyond the usual bumps and scrapes. But even now, the memory of those inevitable near-misses chills me to the bone.

  People think figure skating is soft. A genteel sport.

  It’s not genteel. It’s fucking lethal.

  “Will you show me?” Mila’s soft voice jerks me back to the moment. I stare at her wide green eyes, watching me, beseeching. Her eyelashes are so damn long.

  I swallow. “Show you?” Focus, you ass.

  “What it’s supposed to feel like.” She darts another glance at Chris across the rink. He’s practicing spins, barreling around in tighter and tighter turns. “I’m not sure. At the moment, it feels wrong. But maybe it’s me, and if I can feel you do it, then I’ll have something to judge it by…”

 

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