I want to talk to Bea about it, but not really. I want to tell everyone about it, and I also want to keep the whole thing a secret, something only I know about.

  I definitely don’t want to tell him. Now is not the time to think about my crush on Jason. I need to focus.

  “So, can we do my idea now?” Bronte asks, interrupting my thoughts.

  “Yes,” Bea says. “Let’s do it.”

  My breath gets choppier. I look out at the rink, but I’m still frozen. I can’t move.

  I can’t do this.

  I don’t want to.

  I don’t—

  Suddenly, music is pouring out of Bronte’s phone, and it’s so loud that we all wince.

  “Sorry, sorry,” Bronte says, adjusting the volume.

  And then, at a more regular volume, the song “Dancing Queen” fills the backyard. And Bea, Bronte, and Jason must know that I can’t stay still during this song—nobody can. I try to clamp down on my muscles, but it doesn’t work, and suddenly, there are feathers around my neck and apparently I’m now wearing a pink feather boa. I don’t even need to shift my gaze from the ice to see that Bronte, Bea, and Jason are passing around feather boas as well.

  Thank god I convinced them to practice here. I would never live this down.

  I’m about to remind them to make sure that Bronte’s boa isn’t too long so it doesn’t get caught on something and the boa winds up pulling too tight. Then Bea speaks. “Bronte, remember, your ends need to be tucked in so it doesn’t catch on anything.”

  “Ready, team?” Bronte says, and there’s movement around me, hands grabbing hands. Even through my mittens, I can tell that Bea has taken one hand and Jason has the other.

  I should be paying more attention to the fact that Jason is holding my hand, but all I can think of is that we’re moving on the ice.

  I’m gliding.

  My skates aren’t leaving the ice, but I’m being pulled between two hands that are holding me tightly.

  “Open your eyes.” Jason’s voice is closer than I had thought, almost a whisper in my ear. I want to stop and think about why his voice is making my stomach flip and turn, but more than that I want to tell them that my eyes are open.

  Except they’re not.

  Sometime in the movement onto the ice, I must have closed them, and I tentatively open them to see Bronte’s smiling face a few feet in front of me. She’s wearing her neon snowsuit with the blue boa carefully tucked in like a scarf around her neck. And she’s wearing a tiara made of silver pipe cleaners on top of her helmet.

  And she’s . . . dancing. On the ice. Backward?

  “Nice crown,” I squeak out, which is the silliest thing to say when you haven’t said anything else.

  She gives me a half shrug and a wink. “Right back at you.”

  I’m confused for a moment until I look around and see that Bea and Jason are wearing the same crooked crowns tucked into their helmets. “I have one, too?”

  “Yours is pink.” Bronte laughs. “Bea said you’d like the pink boa and matching pink tiara.”

  Bea squeezes my hand, and my eyes fill with tears. “Dancing Queen” is playing on repeat, and I’m on the ice with three of my favorite people. I might still be scared out of my mind, but there’s nobody I’d rather be out of my mind with.

  “Okay, so we’re getting down to fun,” Bronte says. “Miss Amber gave me a bunch of props, and you get to choose. Do you want to play pick up the dots; red light, green light; or duck, duck, goose?”

  Maybe I don’t like them as much as I thought I did.

  “I wanted to play cut the cake,” Bronte adds, “because that’s always been my favorite, but Bea says we don’t have enough people to form a circle and play it. I said we could invite more people, but Bea said no.”

  I love you, Bea, I want to say, but instead I give her a smile and I know she gets it.

  “How about ring around the snow pile?” I suggest, trying to put some excitement in my voice.

  “Oooh, that’s a good one because it reminds us that falling is fun,” Bronte says, clapping her bright pink gloves together. I can hear Miss Amber’s words in her voice, and it’s kind of eerie.

  Except, falling isn’t fun. Falling is . . . I start to panic, but then there are three voices trying to sing “Ring Around the Snow Pile” over “Dancing Queen,” and we’re all in a circle, and I let go of my fear and try to get into the lyrics.

  Ring around the snow pile, a pocket full of snowflakes . . . snowflakes, snowflakes . . . we all fall down!

  Shockingly, it’s not quite as bad as I remember.

  * * *

  When we finally get off the ice, all of our noses are bright red and my sides hurt from laughing so much.

  Not to mention my rear.

  Bronte’s dad is waiting by the back door, and I have barely enough time to thank her before he’s whisked her off and I’m left with Jason and Bea.

  “That wasn’t so bad, right?” Bea asks as I struggle with the knots in my laces.

  “It was actually pretty fun,” I admit.

  “If hockey doesn’t work out for Bronte, she’s got a career in Snowplow Sam classes,” Jason adds.

  We take off our skates by the back door, and I wiggle my cramped toes. “Seriously, guys, you’re amazing. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to listen to ‘Dancing Queen’ without wanting to hurl—”

  “I didn’t want to say anything, but your face was so white before you got on the ice that I thought you were going to pass out for real.” Bea laughs.

  “I hate you for real,” I snipe back, but I’m laughing.

  My feet ache, and while it’s super cold, I spend a few moments letting my toes stretch out, flexing my feet to get the movement back.

  “You’d think you’ve been out of skates for years, not two months,” Bea says. Her skates are off and her boots are on, and I’m almost embarrassed to be such a newbie.

  But my toes really, really hurt.

  “Two and a half months,” I correct. “And I’m sorry my toes are more sensitive than yours—”

  “Okay, okay!” Bea says. “Let’s go inside and have some hot cocoa.”

  “With whipped cream?” Jason asks hopefully.

  “Definitely,” I say.

  * * *

  On Thursday, Mr. Robertson announces we’re having a special guest coach come in to work with the mentees. This means I don’t have to actually get on the ice. And since this is the last session before the Showcase . . . I won’t have to go on the ice here at all?

  “Do you think it’s weird that we’re suddenly having this special coach come in?” I whisper to Jason as we all gather in the meeting room. Mr. Robertson is at the front of the room, taking attendance.

  Jason shakes his head without shifting his gaze from Mr. Robertson. “It was always on the schedule.”

  I really should have read the schedule.

  “But then why did he tell me I had to get on the ice today?” I ask.

  Jason shrugs. “Maybe he thought this would give you the push you needed to get back on the ice?”

  “I’ll give him the push he needs,” I mutter, and Jason laughs and then coughs to cover it up.

  “And now please welcome our special guest, Coach McHenry!” Mr. Robertson announces.

  “Thank you for having me,” a voice says from the back of the room. A voice that is so familiar that it causes my stomach to clench. From the back row, a woman walks forward toward Mr. Robertson. She’s short, barely taller than I am, but she’s got a powerful voice. It’s the voice I hear in my head whenever I start feeling too confident.

  If you were my player, I’d never let you on the ice again.

  It’s the coach from the team we were playing against that fateful day.

  My palms start sweating. “I need to go,” I say to Jason. “I can’t stay here.”

  I try to escape, only I’m caged in on all sides. And the last thing I want to do is draw attention to myself.

  “Are you okay?” Jason asks, turning toward me.

  I shake my head hard. “I need to go home. I need to not be here.”

  “You can’t. You promised Bronte,” he hisses.

  Shoot. Bronte. I did promise her. And I promised Mr. Robertson. My hands start shaking.

  “Do you know Molly McHenry?” Jason whispers in my ear. I don’t answer. I try to appear calm, like my heart isn’t racing out of control. “She’s supposed to be amazing.”

  Wait until you hear what she thinks of me.

  There’s excited chatter, and Coach Molly moves through the room, coming to stand near Mr. Robertson at the front.

  “Hello, everyone!” she says.

  “Wait, is she the coach?” I hear one of the young mentees ask his friend, the surprise clear in his voice.

  Coach McHenry catches his eye. “If there’s anyone who thinks they don’t need the lesson, we can settle this the old-fashioned way: with a race. I know I don’t look like a strong opponent, which is why I’m happy to prove myself on the ice.” She doesn’t say it in a mean way, just matter-of-factly. But her presence alone makes me so anxious that I flinch.

  A hush settles over the room, and nobody volunteers to race Coach McHenry. It’s clear she’s good at what she does.

  “Glad that’s cleared up,” Mr. Robertson says with a chuckle. “Now half of you will be doing the clinic with Coach Molly during the first hour, and the other half of you will take the second hour. The ones who aren’t doing the clinic will be practicing for the Showcase. Any questions?” There’s silence in the room until he claps his hands. “Right, get moving, then!”

  * * *

  Of course I’m tasked with helping Coach Molly for the first hour, though I lie when she asks if I brought my skates.

  “You seriously didn’t bring your skates today?” she asks. “Today of all days? Do you think you don’t need the help, too?”

  This really isn’t helping me stay in the background.

  I shake my head quickly. I’m standing on the ice in my boots, even though I could have gone to my locker and gotten out my skates. But I don’t feel ready now.

  “I totally think I need your clinic,” I admit. “But I’m just getting back into skating after a couple of months away.”

  I’m hoping to be cryptic enough that she’ll move on, especially because she doesn’t seem to have recognized me.

  “Huh. And you’re a mentor?” she asks, and I nod.

  Maybe it’s time for the truth.

  “I used to be the captain of the girls’ hockey team,” I blurt, not meeting her gaze. “There was an accident on the ice and . . . well, I’m just now getting back.”

  I hate that I’m making her think that I was hurt in the accident, but explaining the whole incident to her, of all people, would be way too intense.

  She frowns as she scans the kids’ progress; they are still getting their skates on. “I assume you caused the accident,” she surprises me by saying.

  “What! How—” I sputter.

  “If you were the one who’d been hurt, you’d be dying to get back on the ice. But you’re looking at the ice like it’s your enemy, which means that while you might be starting to get your skates back on, you’re still living in the fear of whatever happened last season.”

  I nod again, my mouth stuck shut, but Coach Molly doesn’t seem to mind.

  “I’m willing to bet dollars to donuts that whatever happened on the ice, perfecting your technique will ensure that it doesn’t happen again.”

  I close my eyes, exhaustion draining my muscles, and I slowly open them again. “Honestly? I don’t want to go back to hockey. I love it, I really do. And I love being in the rink, and I love the feeling of the ice. But I don’t think I want to play in a game situation again. It feels like whatever drive I used to have to play the game has been cut clean away.”

  Partly because of what you said to me two months ago, I want to say. But I don’t.

  Coach Molly motions the kids to come onto the ice. “Consider this your free invitation. Whether you want to get back on the ice to play hockey or because you want to skate with that guy over there who is making goo-goo eyes at you, it’s important that you feel stronger in your technique so you trust yourself on the ice. Anytime you want to, I’m in. Now go over to that guy; he looks like he’s worried that I’m saying mean things to you.”

  I make a half turn, caught between hoping it’s Jason she’s talking about and hoping she’s totally wrong.

  But of course she’s right. Jason is standing there, watching me with an are-you-okay? expression. Coach Molly must be wrong about the goo-goo eyes, though. I’m sure Jason D’Andre doesn’t make goo-goo eyes at girls.

  Later that day, after the kids and Coach Molly and everyone have left the Skatium, I get out my skates and join Jason at the rink.

  “Just the two of us now?” I ask, and then I want to pull those words back in my mouth and exchange them for something way cooler and less obvious.

  “Not really,” Jason hedges, looking around. “I decided to bring in some extra help.”

  I swivel around in a panic, heart pounding. I don’t want anyone to know I’m doing this, that I’m reduced to skating like a beginner.

  “Breathe, Harper,” he says quietly. “Do you trust me?”

  I turn back around. My eyes find his. I feel like this is a loaded question. But I know the answer right away.

  “Definitely.” The word is whisper quiet, but his wide smile tells me he heard me.

  “Also, just so you know, I have a special treat for you if you do well today,” Jason says.

  I snort-laugh. “A special treat? What am I, six?”

  “If you don’t want it, I’m certainly not going to force you to take it.”

  I swipe at his arm, my fingers just barely grazing his shirt. “Of course I want my treat,” I say indignantly. “You can’t promise someone a treat and then not give it to her.”

  “Truthfully, I’ve never been in the position to give out treats, so I don’t really know all the rules. But I think you’re going to like this one.”

  I bite my lip as I try to think of what Jason could be offering. “Is it food?”

  “No guessing,” he laughs. “But I’ll give you that one as a freebie. It’s not food.”

  I grimace.

  “It’s much better than food,” he promises. “I’ll make you a deal. If you don’t like the special treat, you can trade it in for something edible.”

  “Oh yeah?” I tease. “Like a whole molten chocolate cake from Sollinger’s Bakery?”

  His look is skeptical. “This is getting too complicated. And plus, I can tell that you’re stalling. If you don’t get on the ice, there’ll be no special treats at all.”

  I sigh. “Okay.”

  Jason slides on his skates and tightens them. They’re ten times nicer looking than my ugly hockey skates, but I’d choose mine in a heartbeat. “Ready?” he asks when I have both skates on and laced up.

  I take a deep breath and am about to say yes when I hear a familiar loud voice behind me.

  “Hey, Harper.”

  My stomach plunges. With all this talk of a special treat, I’d almost forgotten that Jason had said someone else would be joining us. I turn around in dread.

  “Hi, Coach Molly,” I say, my voice sounding nothing like the one I used with Jason just moments before.

  “I’m glad to see you found your skates,” she says, and she looks like she’s fighting back a smile.

  “Um . . .”

  I’m going to kill Jason D’Andre, treat or no treat.

  “It’s fine.” She waves her hand and then swings open the door to the rink. “I had a feeling. And plus, now I actually get to make good on my promise.”

  Promise?

  Oh no. No, no, no. My head swings over to Jason, and he winks. Jason. Winks. At. Me. There’s a big part of me that wants to stop everything and just revel in that. But I’m also furious at him for apparently plotting with scary Coach Molly behind my back.

  “Let’s get started,” she says, skating over to me. “You too, Jason. Be there for your friend.”

  “Don’t hate me,” he whispers as Coach Molly starts going through some of the same exercises she did with the kids.

  “Payback,” I promise. “There will be payback.”

  * * *

  Coach Molly gives me an hour lesson, and I don’t know how Jason convinced her to do it, but as much as I hated the paces she put me through, there’s no question she just totally changed my skating life.

  “I still maintain that I don’t care if you ever play hockey again,” she says as we’re taking off our skates. “But that accident two months ago wasn’t just about you. It was scary for all of us there, but you were only one of the people on the ice. I want to make sure that next time you get on the ice, you feel good about your ability to control your skating.”

  “You remembered it was me?” I have a hard time getting the words out, but if she notices, she doesn’t say anything.

  She nods, holding my gaze. “I knew you’d be here even before I agreed to come. In fact, you are part of the reason I decided to do this today. I usually don’t.”

  I stare at her, and she sighs. “I shouldn’t have said what I said to you that day, Harper. I apologize. I was really scared, and I lashed out, and that was a real boneheaded move. And it wasn’t fair to you. I could tell you were traumatized by it, too.”

  My face warms, and I nod back at her. “I kind of was. But I think you were right. That’s why I gave up hockey. I’m too competitive, and I rush in without paying enough attention—”

  “Which is why I wanted to work with you today. Maybe I had a point that day, but the way I spoke to you was totally unhelpful. So instead, I wanted to figure out how to help. I can’t promise you’ll never have another accident out there, but if you keep practicing and working on the stuff I just showed you, you’ll be a very different player.”

 

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